


Life is Strange - Burning Horizon

by Steven_Makrados



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Anxiety, Bipolar Disorder, Crush, Cyber Bullying, Dark Themed, Drugs, F/F, F/M, Fanfiction, Gen, Inspired by Music, Inspired by Real Events, Inspired by Silent Hill 2, Inspired by The Last of Us, Mental Disorder, Mocking, Sehnsucht, Violence against women, added/invented content, inspired by SoMa, inspired by batman arkham games, inspired by cry of fear, inspired by drive, inspired by prince of persia, inspired by remember me, inspired by se7en, inspired by tomb raider, loss of reality, manic depression, time traveling, video games - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 20:42:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 151,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9675377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Steven_Makrados/pseuds/Steven_Makrados
Summary: Two years after Chloe Price's death it reoccurred... there, deep inside another dimension she has awoken. So many things are merged together including the storm, the dying of the animals and her best friend. Albeit that dimension bears another kind of flow. Our protagonist determines to abscond that strange place where time, physics and emotions are nonsense and beyond understanding.Max is back in 2013 with severe amnesia... Her powers have altered the same way as she has. Now it's time to figure out, how the new 2013-timeline became solid, since so many things are different and elusively corrected by an unknown force. First strange things happen right at the beginning. A suicidal incident after the photography lesson where she has believed that she could start all anew.Max will use her altered powers more sparingly, since they eerily differ from the old rewind-powers. What is behind all this? Are polaroid images the only way to proceed? A new disturbing, yet, hope raising adventure approaches. Burning horizon is the beginning of a new calamity that Max has to endure.





	1. Stains in mud

**Author's Note:**

> "Burning Horizon" - originally an inane short story idea called "I'll never leave you here" - will now become a gigantic novel. With tons of references out of the game and inspirations from many other games, movies and songs, among them also the Gorillaz and Muse and also self-composed tracks. Burning Horizon is a rather depressing story which contains themes such as mental disorders, anxiety attacks, hallucinations and suicide. Burning horizon shows a possible happening, two years after the original plot of Life is Strange (Season 1). This story contains two different endings and the reader has no choice to make. The reader is inside Max's head.  
>   
> Still, I don't know how to categorize this fandom. Some might read shaking their heads in disbelief and some might be hooked to the pages. There are also explicit events, such as violence against women, aggression, losing one's control, hard decisions about friendship, blood and other similar depictions of violence. This is my only warning. If you think, you'll suffer by reading this story, you shouldn't proceed. You can also ask me about the most _brutal_ things that occur in this fandom for your mind's sake. After all, I'll leave the rating at 'Explicit'.  
>   
>  Burning horizon contains personal experiences and covers a wide area of my way of thinking. Contact me any time, you want to talk or know anything concerning the story.  
> Twitter: @Makrados  
> Steam: www.steamcommunity.com/id/Makrados/  
> Discord: Steven#1935  
> YouTube (quite inactive) https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC8bWXmjsuJdaeVwneuY2DwQ  
> Life is Strange wasn't a game that significantly "changed" me, neither personally nor mentally, like some others assert in the forums, on blogs, fansite, et cetera. At times it can be tedious and enraging reading rabid fan comments. People being toxic or even possessed by something (zealotism) or write absolutely convinced about certain events (e.g. the protagonists sexuality) out of the game (or myths etc.). Let this game just be a wonderful game. No fixation on anything is healthy, period! Apart from that, Life is Strange had covered similar thoughts to mine and it had proven me that there are still people who believe in supernatural, magical bonds. And that was such a blast! After finishing this game, I got an old pain wiped out of my system. It felt as though this game was loving me, comforting me and finally leaving me alone... which was the worst and most devastating aspect.  
>   
> So, once a very good friend of mine said, "Writing a review only, is dull. If you really want to honor this game, do what must be done." Loosely translated into English. But he was right. Well, this fandom is the long love letter back. A reciprocation, my response to the abundant world that developer DONTNOD had created. Although, I disagreed with some logical errors and especially some decisions along the story, I can't help but admit that there are not as many games that remembered me to be a real human being.
> 
> Together with a few friends, I'm working on details, plot-based stuff, as well as language. None of us is an English (US nor GB) native. So, if you find any errors, misspellings or wrong grammar constructions (e.g. false tense), weird sentences (which are correct, but sound off) please let me know!  
> You'll notice a drastic increase in fidelity as the chapters get more recent. That's because I haven't corrected the first twelve chapters, yet. My English skill level has been constantly increasing until today. Still please let me know if something sounds off or wrong, so that I can learn and further improve my writing and language skills.  
>   
> Bear in mind, that I'm currently a student of media art, working part time job, learning more complex English and working on two Projects within my studies, as well as my future bachelor. So, it might take a while for chapters to be published. I stress it once again. You can contact me anytime, if you want to know something. I cannot always work on this novel.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She reawakes in the storm. Other events happen, at the same time. She lost track of everything. Inside of this entity, which feels like a horrible nightmare, she discovers new events amidst the storm. Weakness is not her only problem within the suffocating, tremendous tornado.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Original date of release - February 25th 2017 -  
> \- First thorough revise - May 29th till June 01st 2017 -
> 
> (May 2018) Most recent updates:  
> -LITERALLY EVERY PARAGRAPH HAS BEEN REWRITTEN!  
> -Significant linguistical improvements  
> -Max's diction adjusted  
> -Rife with new details and more precise descriptions  
> -All in all better readability
> 
> Chapter 01 didn't represent my actual English skill level. Since summer 2017 I've been constantly improving my language skills. I couldn't read this chapter without cringing every two sentences. The revise was tiring but, in my opinion, worth it. I'd love revising up to chapter 12 with my current skills, but that would be suicide, by all fucking means! Since chapter 01 has the most traffic by readers, I consider this major update to be crucial and to prove it's worth being read.

**Prologue:**

In the eye of the storm, I’ll watch my own reflection. Yonder, underneath the sun, a burning layer atop of the ocean is going to blur the entire image. Covered in sweat and tears, I’m going to finish this lot - a skewed reality. The havoc I had wreaked, the ravage which had been caused, mayhem amongst realities… they all work side by side against me. But they will lead me further to the goals I’m seeking? No, I’ll reject their fatal outcome. I will jump through this endless tunnel of this entity and run away.

Don’t you ever dare fumbling with time ever again! Entering this void inside this entity of uncountable layers of realities will interrupt this whole universe that I had created. Oh man, I am talking to myself, right? I’m getting too old for this crap. I need to keep track of my memory, although it’s pointless to focus on something, which is inevitably going to be purged out of my system. Those thoughts of mine won’t be valuable to anything, to anyone. Is my past approaching, or am I stuck somewhere, where time doesn’t exist again? If yes, there will be no hope nor cure, just a captured moment that I can’t escape.

I had been using myself as a vessel of destruction all along. Destruction not only to others…

 **Chapter 01 – Stains in mud**  
_(Revision 02 - May 2018)  
_ **Theme Song: Frames – Don’t Stay Here**

I hear a loud shatter of glass and all the sudden I’m back here?

Water of the ocean. Waves splashing against brittle rocks of the bay. A seagull screeching somewhere in the distance. Why are my eyes closed? I open them; wow what a sight! I press play on my music player in my pocket. With both shoes in the right hand, I saunter down to the sea. Water surging up against the rocks creates a beautiful component along with the song on my ears. It is “Don’t Stay here” by “Frames. I must grin, why is that such a sad song, but at the same time so perfect?

The sand around my feet gets wet the farther I walk towards the dusk. Water washes up and reaches for my bare feet. Lucky me, I’ve rolled up my jeans’ legs. Hell yeah, this song is great, I thought. Why didn’t I find this piece earlier? The sun sets to the famous golden hour. I’ll have to take a picture of this magnificent moment. Whoa, this track is a hell of a big contrast to how I feel. Don’t stay here… huh, I’d never leave this beautiful place.

I turn around half dancing half walking toward the boardwalk. Something, though, interrupts this wonderful image. Heading to a bench near the boardwalk, I’ve spotted two young women walking away from me. Through the vapor of the heat, they look kind of like transparent blueish silhouettes. One of both sits in a wheelchair, covered with a thick blanked. The other one, who’s accompanying her, timidly follows her. Quite interesting to see wheelchair trails next to small footprints. The healthy woman looks concerned about something.

Well, I sit down on this pretty darn old bench and brush a few pounds of sand off my feet. My shoes are waiting just under the bench. Just look at this melting thing drowning in the horizon. I pause the music track right before the song could’ve climaxed and gone crazy.  Wow, merely two minutes have passed. Time seems to slow down in this magic evening. I stuff the player into my dirty bag, which has sand grown all over it. After that, I grab my polaroid camera and flash the burning horizon. Can’t wait to see the print.

Wooh, that’s creepy. Kind of tunnel vision with an aura narrowing the image. Hella disturbing if you don’t know what it is.

I hang my head and swing it over the back rest of the wooden bench. Watching the seamless gradient in the sky, I overhear the conversation between those two girls. They’ve stopped somewhere next to me. They’re talking about whales. Huh, I know that whale hearts are supposed to be as big as a car. Nonetheless, I don’t wish myself a heart as big as a damn car. Wait, what? They’re talking about beached whales. I turn around to them. Even over ten foot away, they still look like a silhouette inside the heat. Something cruel must have happened recently. And I missed it. Considering one of them sits in a wheelchair is cruel enough if you asked me.

‘Nuff said, there’s no reason to think about such depressing emo bullshit. This day couldn’t get any better, no poor girl in a wheelchair will drag down my mood. Now, how did my day start and where? How did I end up here on the beach? Fuck it, I don’t care. My mood can’t be better, so what?

I raise my head a little and stretch my body, which makes me feel like I could touch the endless calm and quiet sky. At the same time, I enjoy the gentle ocean winds around my arms as though it’s trying to embrace me. The subtle noise of waves reaching the rocks and splashing into million little drops, each of them slapping on the cushy sand. Inside my head, all those noises of nature will continue.

Deep in my heart I knew, I’d never enjoy myself so much ever again. Before I can realize the stitching pain of divination, I’ve understood that my future is going to be agony. I feel nothing else anymore… I fall asleep on the bench with the relaxing world echoing in my head. Farewell…

\--------  
I heard the chime of a bell…  
\--------

The eye of the tempest watches my life slowly leaving my body. Sunken into the wet sand, there’s a crackle in my ears. Earphones of an mp3-player. I thought, I’d have seen the burning horizon glowing before my eyes, but it appears to be gone. The skies above me have turned dark and gray in a heartbeat. Howling powerful gusts lash their carried weight in my face. Grain crumbles like little itching particles over my cheeks, as I rub them off my skin.

Like vanished ghosts, all of a sudden, dozens of ginormous whales reappear on the shore. Dead beached whales. The smooth dunes, which were just sprawling over the beach, are now bent down by the heft of the suddenly emerged animals. Dark craters inside this tremendous storm. Poor little things, who did this to them and why? What the eff is happening here? Is this a dream about the conversation from those two strange girls? I am dead certain, this is just the most vivid nightmare of my lifetime. From somewhere behind me, I hear one of those girls still speaking,

“None taken.”  
And those were the last words I’ve ever heard by those two. As I turn my head around, I see them both vanishing farther away on the boardwalk. I’m sure, I’ve seen one of both before… somewhere.

Holy, I’m feeling sick from watching these poor stranded things. Aside from those gruesome things, I also sense an unpleasant feeling in my gut. A sensation of misfortune. Who am I? What’s my name? Strange, because I know the band and their title, I’ve just listened to, but my memory, it’s gone. And why doesn’t this scare the crap out of me? I feel normal… despite the disgusting knowledge in my gut.

Time for me to do something. I get up from the wet sand. Rain is pouring down on my body. It’s getting colder, my clothes can’t absorb any more water. Like an extra layer of skin, the fabric sticks like glue to my body. I see my own imprint inside the sand plus the mp3-player. I grab it. Someone’s shoes are dwelling beneath an old bench just a few feet away from me.

As I contemplate the scenery, I’ve come to the realization that all of it seems more than familiar to me. Marks of the wheelchair have remained on the boardwalk. The storm slowly but surely wipes them off and mixes them with grain and dirt altogether. Sand flies like a blanked of particles over my head, looking at me like the eye of a beautiful girl. All this agitates me and makes me believe that I’m just dreaming or hallucinating. Now there are only two things to undertake: Either choice doesn’t sound as it would help me out. One, just run away; Two, viscerally follow the vanished girls. I look back to the pair of boots lingering under the wooden bench. Somebody else must be here - watching my every step as I think and act.

All of this forces me to rethink my arbitrary strategy. To randomly follow a wheelchair’s trails in a treacherous storm. What about the out of nowhere appearing whales at the shore? What about the vanished girls on the boardwalk talking about exactly those? I reckon, one of the girls had known something about the forthcoming storm, the calamity immediately before my eyes. Her mere existence filled my mind with disquieting pain, experience, choices, actions, sorrow and grief. Holy, that’s a lot of weight to carry. Interestingly enough, I feel a striking resemblance to her way of thinking in my own way of thinking.

The sand under my feet is wet and soaked up with water while I’m running back to the boardwalk to gain a more stable stance. Tracks of the wheelchair are fading, but I follow them. Like someone dragging a cord, the wind blows the trails away as I’m chasing them. The marks reach a jut in front of the raging ocean. Very far away, a tornado summoned. Ginormous, alive, terrifying and beyond my understanding. I fall on my knees, grain digs into my skin, although I seem to feel no physical pain. The gigantic threat hovers over the sea and raises its waves higher than a hundred yards. The spinning entity made its ocean its very own little toy to play with. What on earth has spelled this unholy incantation? What’s underlying?

For some reason, there still is a stitch inside my chest that tells me to move on, seek something particular. A mental pain that moves between my ribs and twinges with every new heartbeat. I glance up to a muddy pathway. At the end there is a lighthouse. Not too far away, I recognize a young girl entering that pathway. Obviously, she is on her way up to the lighthouse. I guess, she’s running away from the unsacred menace and searching shelter. She is blue-haired, tattooed and damn skinny.

Considering all the waste and leaves revolving around me, it is a bloody hurdle to follow her. Fallen trees and drenched pathways don’t make that easy. Some mud splashes up while running up that hill and sticks like glue to my legs. All of a sudden, this weather fogs the entire environment. A white translucent disguise condensing the air rendering me almost blind. What’s this distinct chilling prickle on my body? Snow? It’s too hot for snow to fall. It’s immediately evaporating on my skin.

As I arrive at the lighthouse, I look at the girl standing next to the wooden bench facing the never-ending rage of nature. She stares at the tornado. Out of nowhere my strength has gone. My nose bleeds gravely and my head hurt terrible. No physical pain, yet. It’s all in my mind, although the blood seemingly flows out of my nostrils and drips off my lips. I can’t take it. My legs succumb to the intrinsic horrors and I plummet to the muddy soil. A melody of whales hangs in the air.

There are so many unbearable, tattered memories circling inside my head. Nothing tangible, nothing clear. It’s a blur that fades to black. My throat aches as though someone chocked me. I open my eyes and see Arcadia Bay. It looks so small and helpless. The town seems to beg for mercy as the jeopardy approaches the city. Yet, the eye of the storm stills hovers over the sea, dancing with endless waves around it’s gray undulations. However Arcadia Bay looks, it seems dead to me. No escaping people nor running animals, no flying birds. There is only one soul alive in here. And I also remember her name.

The girl’s name must be Chloe. I mean, the girl in the wheelchair. Her voice is so distinct and clear, it almost refreshed my memory. How much I liked her and loved her. But this young woman next to the bench stands on two healthy legs and her hair is dyed blue. I try to keep my head upright, but my view turns into mush. Even the subtlest movement of my head smears the already prevailing blur into a mess beyond recognition.

I just assume, the girl next to the bench is Chloe, too. Waterdrops dripping on her neck during the wind elegantly pushes her hair back and forth. A wide blanket of sand particles flies above her head. It twists like a mini tornado and ripples around the lighthouse as if it were a breeze to tear it apart. After that, the blanket of sand particles hisses to the blue-haired girl and dances around her body, without touching her skin with the tiniest granule. She grabs into her pocket and takes a photo and looks at it while saying,

“I’m sorry…”

She let the polaroid fly off, as she opens her hands. A swarm of sand particles carries away the photograph. It leaves the lighthouse and floats to the shore. The girl turns around after the thin layer of sand particles has left her. Now, deep inside of me I acknowledge that she is a Chloe, too. Another iteration. I fight against the weakness inside of me and roll on the ground with no power to get back up. It is torture trying to keep my eyes opened. I heard something whispering,

“Miss Caulfield, can you hear me?”

A manly voice I can’t remember. Either way, anything right now is a bloody mess. What am I to do? What to I have to do in order to put an end to this? What underlying meaning am I missing? This can’t be real? Either I’m just dying or having the worst nightmare ever…

What’s over there? On a tree stump, there is a gleaming object. As if a bright light source was beaming at it so that it reflects and blinds my eyes. That object sticks into the wood, but subtly shakes to the jerking winds.

Suddenly, this thing leaves the stump and hovers a few feet up. By an unknown force it illuminates and stays dangerously unmoving in mid-air. Visually ungraspable fragments are absorbed into that gleaming object. A disgusting sound bellows above the girl and me. All energy leaves my body. I fear to lose consciousness and die inside this unholy nightmare. Why the hell am I so unspeakably weak? Lying on the ground, I steadily focus on my limbs and their corresponding muscles. First the finger, then my hand, after that my arm, and finally my upper body; until I’ve focused on every possible muscle to get up back on my feet.

I hear the girl screaming a name into my direction. However, across the storm it appears to be more of a desperate whisper than a cry for my name. She has called me Max. Blurry and hollow appears the shape of her body inside of this white disguise before the lighthouse. A translucent silhouette just a few feet away from me. She’s shivering, and not even clothed for such a weather. Which makes me think if she even knew about what was coming. It strengthened my belief that we are trapped inside one’s dream.  

Half-standing on my shaky feet, I concurrently feel the first physical real pain. Coldness; all limbs quiver and my teeth chatter as they are gritting to one another. My knees give way, the rest of my body follows along. Now my face is covered in mud. Weariness in my bones grows bigger as I’m reattempting to get up. I raise my hand to the blue-haired girl, since my bond to her feels somewhat real and tangible. But instead of falling again, my hand instantly grasps something cold and solid inside the palm.

Without even seeing what’s going on, I know that I’m currently holding that gleamy iron thing that has been hovering above us just a minute ago. How in the world did I manage to suck this thing into my hand? What magnetic force am I bearing? It is a knife. Whereas everything remains a blur, the knife is even sharper to see. My lids feel like a big weight tries to shut them again. My body doesn’t feel any different. This knife has numbed my arm. The other arm follows. I’m falling back on my upper body and feel the mud splashing into my face. Good thing, my eyes are closed.

When I reopen my eyes, I can recognize the young girl in front of me. A blur, but who else should be there? Very determined she stands a few inches in front of me as though she knows what’s standing ahead of us. All sounds reduce to my breath, the storm sounds like a mute flow of blood pushing through my veins and whistling into my ears. I’m becoming deaf, the flow of blood now sounds like a calm ocean. The soil under my right ear shatters. Apparently, Chloe has fallen on her knees to help me up or… She grabs my head and rotates my body so that I lie on my side. Finally, my eyes reopen by themselves. Her face looks beautiful.

Almost begging, she folds her hands and prays with her eyes being all red. Is she crying because of something? Does she know me? I don’t remember her bond to me, but I remember my love to her. She bows in front of me, although I am the one helplessly lying on the ground, fighting with her own body. Inept and pathetic. She speaks,

“Max, you’re back. How? I’m not worth this bullshit!” I’m half deaf, but I vaguely sensed her words.

This is nonsense. All of this crap has a reason to exist. How often have I caught the same paths over and over inside this big maze? I don’t know, but Chloe maybe knows what the hell is going on. She must know about this maze that I forgot entirely. Her cold fingers touch my arms, although her shaking doesn’t feel like she’s cold, instead she seems to be afraid. Aside from that, I regained some of my energy back. I try to move my legs to get up.

The sudden regain of my power has had a source. This source comes from the dagger, feeding me with an occult energy which senses akin to little bugs crawling inside my arms. A disgusting energy that I cannot refuse. Its flow doesn’t stop from entering my body. It mingles with my blood and itches in my chest as it reaches my heart. I feel stronger than ever, but not by my own willpower. The volition is triggered by this filthy blade inside my hand, forbidding me to let go. Every attempt to open my hand, results in a piercing pain through my wrist. The dagger prevails over me - I’m its vessel.

The added flow in my veins pains like an undertow dragging you to the ground. But I’m standing firmly now. Chloe, still on her knees, looks up to me with one or two tears leaving her lower lids. I can’t tell if it’s rain or tears. The fog around us clears, no snow falls from the sky, the tempest, however, grows bigger and howls louder than before. Our surroundings are desaturated, even Chloe’s hair seems to fade. The contrast between black and white squishes. Despite the dwindling colors, I can finally hold my eyes opened without feeling a weight pulling them down.

Flying particles of waste and grain spins around us. A small tornado revolving around us. His bigger brother has raised up and beyond the gray sky. Flashes cut inside of it and seems to feed it. It grows bigger. The ocean obeys and succumbs that giant monster. Chloe breathes faster, her carotid leaps under her skin.

A deafening screech occurs. I’m going blind at the same time. Chloe has stopped breathing. Not only that…

Although I’ve sensed no movement, I somehow know what has happened. Faster than light, my hand has been moved to her chest. The hand carrying the lethal sharp blade. No muscle tic, no other movement has been done. It’s not my fault. My hand has been forced to cut into her. The white disguise on my eyes vanishes. Chloe’s head lies motionlessly on my shoulder. The soft hair cushions the weight on my body.

Time is paused. Nothing moves any longer. I don’t sense the dagger’s power anymore. I release the hilt of this disgusting tool. Without looking at her deep wound, I embrace her with my now freed hand and spot all of her blood all over my arm. No matter how much it’s going to hurt, I must look what I have caused.

Blood courses down the blade and drips on the dirty soil down from the hilt. How can I stop this? I merely hope, that Chloe didn’t feel the dagger. Maybe the stitch has caused this pause of time. Her body stays in this same frozen position; however, her blood continues running out of her body. I touch the blade to remove it out of her body, since she wouldn’t feel anything. Just as I touch the hilt of the blade, I hear an atrocious loud scream of her voice. A frozen scream that keeps on shouting in pain. It doesn’t stop. The blade sticks firmly in her chest. I remove my hand, the scream goes off.

By instinct, I raised my shaky hand and closed my eyes.

A ghastly metal rattling during all things begin to move in reverse. I hold my eyes shut, because I perceive a backwards motion which I don’t want to interrupt. I stop this sort of rewind, because my head feels like someone wants to rip my head off with a hook pierced through my skull. A muffled wind chime in the back of my head fades.

I open my eyes. She has been moved away. Gone, vanished. But, this world plays in a forward motion again, so, where is she? Stains of blood remain on the ground where I’ve just stabbed her. I mean, where this thing has stabbed her with my hand. The dagger has found its place on the stump. Solely looking at it makes me sick already. This way or another, the lighthouse’s mere sight has turned much more threatening than before. It appears to be much bigger, kind of looming over Chloe and me.

How did I rewind time? How did I do this? I just realize, that I’m suffering from amnesia. I don’t remember anything. I can’t even remember who I am. My legs shake again. The lack of power has returned. As horrible as it sounds, I need the dagger again to regain my energy. I support myself with the right hand on the ground. I sense my hand plunging inside a puddle. It’s not water but Chloe’s blood. I crawl forward and raise my chest, so that this blade will thrust into my chest. It should be I who dies, not Chloe. Yet, another memory shoots back into my mind. An emotion that rejects my death wish. Nothing breaks this one word - this one word breaks you. Love.

Now it’s I who’s feeling hot drops of water leaving my eyes. Tears mixing with the rain. Chloe faces my direction and bows down to help me get up. Her appearance mollifies all anxiety at once. I embrace her devoid of commenting on anything that has happened before. The same screech echoes through time, once again. I’m blind all over. A white layer atop of my iris. Nothing has happened with me, but with her. It has occurred a second time. The blade has been thrusted inside her chest without me knowing that I was been holding that thing the entire time. I’ve stabbed her in her back. I must, because I embraced her. Both my hands were lying on her back.

I’ll rewind for the very last time. No more blood…

I’ve rewound as far as I could. Stopping the backwards motion, I cough as if somebody has been constantly chocking around my neck. Chloe has just entered the pathway and stops, since she sees me kneeling in someone’s blood. Blood that courses down the pathway like a tiny river. I hurry to her as long as my legs can carry me and my body doesn’t give up. Everything hurts. My face, my throat, my eyes; every tiniest fiber of my being feels like acid has been showered over me.

My right hand is still imbued with her warm and fresh blood. The rewind hasn’t cleaned my ensanguined hand. My nose starts to bleed as I dart to, the frozen in shock, Chloe. I try to remove the blood under my nose until I notice that it’s my bedaubed hand which can’t be rinsed. The heavy rain, that drenches our hair and our clothes doesn’t seem to clean the blood of Chloe. A fixed stain on hand and arm. Instead of trying to explain the little river of blood running down the pathway or my ensanguined limb, I ask her,

 “Chloe, you wanna… stay here _…_ watching the ocean? Please?”

The storm howls even louder on the boardwalk. I embrace her tightly.  
“I’ll _never_ leave you!” I say.  
Chloe does not answer, hasn’t rejected my embracement whatsoever. Suddenly, I hear a hiss occurring from somewhere above. I know that I’m just wait out the inevitable. I have no idea on how to defend her from that thing. That knife is a sign, a symbol which is deeply connected with… me.

“You are no murderer!” Chloe says half stammering with dejected eyes.  
“I’ve seen you… _dying_ , Max. You have to get away!” she adds.  
“Get the hell away,” she says and her voice is drowned in pain.  
“I won’t be mad,” her hair flutters in the wind.

Cold mysterious words, but I refuse surrender. Just as I decide to run away _with_ her, the dagger snaps like a magnet inside my palm and pulsates its ominous energies into me. This sick power slowly moves my hand toward Chloe’s body. For a change, I’m capable of dragging against the dagger’s force. But no matter how hard I try to tug it away from her, the unknown force clearly has an edge over me.

I use my left but clean hand to even the odds. Senseless, it’s beyond my strengths. After all, something must’ve changed. Time hasn’t frozen, which makes me believe that I have altered anything. Focusing so much strength into my arms, causes my legs to languish. My heartbeat outruns the endless hammering drops of rain on my skin. Blood races through my veins as all my arms and torso stiffen. Incrementally, inch by inch, heartbeat per heartbeat, the dagger gets closer to Chloe’s head. Slowly the blade reaches her throat. She doesn’t move away, run away or anything. She seems to know this thing or… I don’t know why the hell she doesn’t care to survive as much as I do.

I change my gaze from her face to the blade. In its reflection, the world seems immaculate. Neither are there whales on the shore nor any tempest or other fierce events to speak of. The clean reflex of the sharp blade happens to show a pristine world. Not even Chloe shows up in its reflection. I see the boardwalk and there ware the soft and almost vanished indentations of the wheelchair whereas the reflex doesn’t contain any of that. Another component that is innocent and clean seems to be my very hand holding the knife. A blood smeared hand which is rinsed inside a mirror.

I fight even harder. A searing pain in my back grows wider while I’m pulling that thing away from her face. The more power I lose the higher the number of tears that run down my cheeks. Along with the cold raindrops they feel like the cry of fear that nobody will ever answer. My eyes must be red like fire, but in the daggers reflection they remain white and clean. The only red color inside my face are my tired bloodshot eyes. Counting those billion tears falling from the skies, I can’t find Chloe’s own warm tears on her face. There is too much rain between us.

I know I will lose this fight against this horrifying weapon. I remove one hand off the hilt. It doesn’t change the strength of the force I’m fighting against. I use my left and clean hand to touch her face. Hundreds of waterdrop mingle in my palm. Few of them are her own waterdrops. Warm drops, that I didn’t see, because they all look alike.

Dirt splashes up, more wind flogs us with grain and sand. Steadily the dagger approaches Chloe’s neck and pushes against the outer layer of her skin. So, the throat it will be… instead of her chest. More and more energy leaves my body, my fingers tingle because I can’t feel them any longer. Chloe inhales deep and says, “I told you, ‘Don’t stay here’…”

This is it. I’m not going to make it. The blade in my hand is stronger than I. What else can I do with my leftover power? Yield and kiss her. Without knowing what the hell has happened in the past hours, days, months, god knows, years, it is indifferent. I remember my name and love to her only. That’s fair enough. If I can’t change her fate, I’ll say sorry the best way I can.

Even if I cannot remind myself of anything else, the kiss feels eerily familiar, like a million other kisses with her. Then, she suddenly moves her tongue in my mouth all by herself. My initial timid little contact with her lips is nothing compared to what she’s making out of it. The blade digs deeper into her skin but doesn’t cut it open yet. Drenched lips with hundreds of new teardrops falling from the sky don’t quit touching mine. Her tongue reaches mine and gently spins around it.

Despite from my hand feeling paralyzed along with all fingers, I am definitely sensing the slow cut into her skin. It’s all in vain. So I merely focus on my last gift to her, this desperate kiss. First little streams of blood leave her neck. She doesn’t budge, but instead bites on my lower lip and exhales out loud. Warm wind out of her nose tickles on my chin. A warm movement of air within this nightmare of a storm - and the nightmare in my hands being bloodthirsty.

Chloe’s bite on my lip hurts, but I accept it. I deserve much worse, and even the bite feels somewhat mollifying. Raindrop land on her upper lip and flow into my mouth. As each drop reaches my lips, they are warm already making it impossible to distinguish between rain or tears. She pets my wet arms. Rain collects in her palms and slips down on her own arms. Digging her fingernails into mine, forces me to focus less on the blade in my hand but on her. The cut on her neck tears more of her skin. So much blood coursing down under her shirt, the imprint of the ouroboros imbued. Seemingly the only color in this godforsaken world. Red.

The knife finally drops out of my hand and fell on the bottom with a jarring clink. Beneath the blood covered blade have been the trails of the wheelchair. The painful pressure of her teeth has released. She’s still alive, the time hasn’t stopped. Nothing here makes any sense, everything feels forgotten and vanished out of my head. Just the wonderful remaining raindrops crashing on our skulls create some kind of composition. Their rhythm as they hammer on the ground happens to conclude a song which I can remember.

The storm intensifies, the horrific rain smashes our bodies like ginormous drapes. Her bite’s pressure releases, her strength abates. I see, she’s not fighting against death. She exhales one last time through her nose and pushes her lips against mine. I can surely feel the lack of strength in her body. The firm grasping of both her hands around my arms goes away. Her head slowly drops on my collar bone. Both her hands slap to the ground. Moaning in pain, she fights against the lack of power in her body. Chloe raises her head and says one last time goodbye.

With hardly sensible pressure, she pushes her lips against mine. This time, blood leaves her mouth and enters mine. I turn my head away, because I didn’t expect this to happen. Her head falls onto my shoulder. I grab her head with both my hands and return the kiss. This time by leaving a little gap between her lips and mine to separate the blood which then streams out of our mouths to a little red line. She coughs once and some drips of her blood reaches my pharynx. I quit the kiss and embrace her almost lifeless body and press her head near my shoulder and neck.

An itch on my arm occurs. On my right arm, someone is drawing letters with a pen or so, but there’s no one around except for Chloe whose life will end in the next few heartbeats. Now, the rain doesn’t feel good anymore. The sensation has changed to a excruciating blanket of needles flogging at my skin with a subsequent burn.

Gradually, she inhales her own blood and fills her lungs with it. Blood of grief. Somehow, she manages to raise her right hand to touch my left cheek for one last time. Her fingertips have become cold. I look down to her face. The eyes become marble. Her jaw opens and even more red paint touches my body. It’s running down and spreading around my chest. Some of her kissed blood comes out of my mouth and drips onto her head, painting a red streak into the left part of her hair.

I wish, I could tell who I am, where and why. Nothing matters to me except for Kate, my parents and my blue-haired angel bleeding out on my chest. Has it something to do with this uncanny knack of being able to rewind time?

“I’ll never leave you alone,” are my last words to the empty shell which has once borne an entire soul. Time freezes in this world again. There is no other movement than my own body or Chloe’s flow of blood. Apparently, the only indication of time in this hell. Is there anybody else? God, too many questions in my head and it is sure to be unanswered. After all, I have an answer to an ungiven question,

“Will I leave Chloe here? – I’d never leave her. This derailed dimension is my legacy…”

I grab into my bag and pull out a music player. One track is shown paused on its blueish glowing display. Another existing color inside this desaturated space. The song name reads, “Don’t stay here” and there is this pause-icon. I hit resume and can’t believe the impact of this song.

My eyes burn like fire, a searing twinge inside my chest, a cold chilling pulse shoots through my bones. I cry my eyes out in deepest pain. I can’t handle this amount of grief all at once. No cure in this devastating dimension will help me out. My heart aches like hell. Chloe, I’m sorry, but I messed it up. In my heart it feels like I have lost decades ago. All of this feels like an ongoing process that I have utterly forgotten.

It’s cold without her. It’s cold when time is frozen. It’s cold, when you are the only existing soul inside a nightmare. It’s cold in your heart even though your best friend’s head lies exactly there. I’m shaking like a leaf, and only Chloe’s blood seems to be warm. Her head, arms, upper body, it all cooled down after her death. I had it coming to me. Although I cannot remember jack shit about anything, I feel a very present type of guilt in my gut. I well up with tears and press my face on Chloe’s cold scalp. I kiss her there, although she’ll feel nothing at all.

Fighting against yet another fit of tears, I rub away the blur on my eyes to contemplate the shiny dagger on the grainy soil. Stains of blood are all over the boardwalk. The dagger lays inside a little puddle. I focus the blade and see my own reflection, all of a sudden, a visual distortion flashes into my eyes. I wince but keep up my line of sight with this unholy thing. I pick up the dagger and regard the reflex even further. On shore, I spot the outlines of a person. She is too far away though, meaning all I see is a blur. I look into my own swollen eyes and yet another visual twitch occurs. I sense something deep inside of me… like the surfacing after a long dive. Am I waking up?

I’m lying on the ground. Slowly, my senses regain the normal human being functions. My memory feels like an engine slowly accelerating and recollecting the dots that I was missing all along. A flash wakes me up, the mud under my face is wet. My body feels warm again, although a phantom imprint of Chloe’s face remains on my chest. My clothes are clean, no blood whatsoever. The hovering tornado is back at the far distance on the ocean. Less threatening than before… I’m at the same place, the same area, however, it feels like another reality. Like a new chance.

A big and soothing shiver is send down my spine. I know, it sounds odd, but I really sense some kind of hope in my gut. A promising start. I have to get up back on my feet. I’m trapped in a storm I seem to remember. How did I get here? …and where is “here”? A light shows up at the tip of the hill. … The lighthouse… I’ll be safe if I can make it there… The rain hurts my eyes like stitching needles. The storm flogs trash and dirt around, but the hope in my chest prevails.

I somehow know this place better than the other dimension I came from. Okay, this is creepy. I’ve reached the tip of the hill, near the lighthouse. Another oddity is the leftover blood from before. Whatever ‘before’ means. This feels wrong. A sawm of sand particles carries a photograph. Too far to catch or even get a glimpse. A boat bursts into the lighthouse and… holy shit! One big wreckage breaks apart and… whoa, no!

Someone is holding my hand, but I’m not sure if that’s real or just my imagination.  
I black out. Nothing but emptiness… I can’t see a thing.

\--------

The sound of a bell chimed…

\--------

I flinch and wake up in Jefferson’s photography class. That was so surreal. I’ll have a quick look around. Everything seems to be… fucked up as it always was. I hear Mr. Jefferson saying,  
“Alfred Hitchcock famously called film ‘little pieces of time’ but he could be talking about photography, as he likely was.”

Okay… I’m in class… Everything’s cool… I’m okay… Jefferson continues,  
“These pieces of time can frame us in our glory and our sorrow; from light to shadow; from color to chiaroscuro… Now, can you give me an example of a photographer who perfectly captured the human...”

I didn’t fall asleep, and… that sure didn’t feel like a dream… Weird, I still feel her head on my chest. A phantom impression? That was more like a dream within a dream and… horrible amnesia. God, I can feel my head pounding.

Victoria answers butt-kissing as is, “Diane Arbus.”

Mr. Jefferson nods his approval and looks around in class,  
“There you go, Victoria! Why… Max… what’s up with your nose? Damn… see a doctor Max.”  
I feel the typical pain in my head. I’m a lot wiser, smarter, older, and yet, I’m inside of my 18-year old body. No white disguise around me, which means I’m not within a time travel concoction again. That means this dimension won’t collapse the same way. I reply,  
“I’ll go to the toilet, if it’s ok”  
“We’ll talk about the competition later. Don’t you forget about submitting a photo.”

I can’t stomach this atrocious voice. Jefferson turns around and walks back to the empty table, where he has always been rambling his bull. Anyhow, Taylor throws the balled-up piece of paper against Kate, although I cross its trajectory. I remember Kate being bullied. I catch the paper frowning at Taylor for bullying.

She looks up to me, as though I was about to lose it. I can’t believe I know this entire event back and forwards. I cover my nose to prevent it from drippling on the floor. I’ll cramp the paper that I was almost thrown at in my pocket. You’ll never know when you could need it again…

Victoria whispers,  
“Nice catch. Selfie-powers?”  
“Gee, stupid whore is fucked up.”  
Taylor utters to Victoria almost inaudibly.

I leave the classroom and hurry to the toilet. I know this timeline is fresh and new. So, now I can do whatever I like without focusing polaroid images. Weird, I had to focus an ancient looking dagger to come back here. What’s the underlying meaning? I feel the grave headache growing bigger. But at least, I’m not palsied on my limbs and have to kill my blue-haired angel. Oh no… can I still rewind time?

Argh! A battering pulse to the sound of a chime ports me. Something chokes on my neck. A fast blur smears the vision.

Back in class again, at my table. Jefferson poops out of his filthy mouth,  
“These pieces of time can frame us in our glory and our sorrow;”  
he walks to the windows, a wide stripe of sunlight casts on his face,  
“from light to shadow; from color to chiaroscuro…,”  
he heads back to his table, a cloud outside masks the sun,  
“Now, can you give me an example of a photographer who perfectly captured the human.”

Oh my, this isn’t as good as I expected. Being back feels great, but I’ve forgot about the main menace in this very room which is either Jefferson or me. I don’t want to have this gift at my disposal again. I can now remember the damage that it has caused. Talking about this _gift,_ I somehow don’t rewind, but teleport. Not only that, I’ve also shifted time. I literally jump in this timeline. My nose bleeds again…

The consequence being that Mr. Jefferdouche immediately interrupts Victoria’s attempt to kiss his ass,  
“Max? God, your nose. We’ll hold our course,” he approaches my table.  
You Max, come with me and we’ll consult the school medic!”  
Oh, no! I’ve messed up. He can’t go with me.

A pulse ports me with a backwards motion.

Back outside on the empty hallway of Blackwell. Jefferson continues his course without knowing that I’ve left. Really? Hell yeah! I can definitely use this teleport ability. I mean, it hurts around my neck, but it has now saved my ass. I take my camera out of my battered bag and shoot a selfie in this empty hallway of lockers and randomly placed posters. Back to reality, with some minor changes. Hopefully, this selfie could be a point of start everything over again. Good thing, I’ve taken this photo outside instead of the classroom. I’d be better off without seeing that big asshole.

If this pulse-technique really is my new ability, I should find out more about the possibilities I can undertake. Forward and backward, from point A to point B. Great… I feel like a dumb version of Einstein. Compassion level over nine thousand. There is no such thing as past and future. Only our actual perception of presence. In my case… it’s a little different. I am just a little girl on some boring ass planet which is unimportant among billions of starts and other unimportant planets… just with one little job to do. Save Chloe and rekindle the friendship the way she wishes.

Whoa right, talking about her, I’ve totally forgotten, that she will be in danger soon. I have to run outside and warn her… but I’m still the same clumsy as before. I’ve run into someone’s drone. Goddammit! I fall on my back… time rewind, maybe? How did I mange? Clench my fist, close my eyes and…

A pulse shoots me to the sound of a chime to the toilets. It appears to me in a forward motion.

Wow, I didn’t mean to port myself here. However that is, let’s take the notorious picture of the blue butterfly on the galvanized bucket. Strangely enough, the windows are shut. The cleaning stuff is still there but in a different position than I can remember. I don’t get it. I turn around to leave the toilet. Just as I open the door, a shot bangs through Blackwell. What? Neither Chloe nor Nathan are present as it should be. Did he shoot her elsewhere?

I clench my fist to pulse with a backwards motion. The strangling on my throat is hurting me.

Wrong spot… I’m in front of Brooke. She hasn’t recognized me yet. How doesn’t she see me. The strangle on my neck hurts badly. I cough and crouch down in pain.

“Max, are alright? Oh, your nose!” Brooke now realized my sudden existence and holds my shoulders so that I don’t fall.  
“I’m okay. I’m just feeling… dizzy,” I gasp for air.  
“I see. Here, use this and relax,”  
she hands me a tissue.  
“Thanks, Brooke,”  
The anxiety about the unknown throbs with my increased heartbeat. This _new_ weird kind of rewind won’t bode well if I overdo it.

“I heard that nosebleeds mean you have a crush on somebody,” Brooke smiles warmly.  
“But nosebleeds of boys?” I look up to her and shake my head in disbelief.  
“Oh, right… girls blush,” she crouches down to me.

I’m trying to sit straight, but this comment ruins it. I’m starting to giggle. Haven’t done that in a while. “Oh Maxi, why’s everybody just so mean to you?”  
“Eh, what?”  
What does she mean with this? The shot occurs, again. A truck at the parking lot starts its engine. Damn, I need to pulse again.

I pulse backwards again. My neck feels like it would crush every moment.

I’m at the parking lot. Hiding behind a car. I can’t think about what Brook has just said. I must find out, where the hell the shot has come from. I see Chloe and Nathan arguing. Nathan yells something at her, what I can’t quite understand. He leaves her enraged and slaps her face.

Ouch! That hurts by listening to it. She shivers but stays there to have a cigarette. Let’s wait a minute. Nothing happens. Alright, I use the situation to skulk behind her and,  
“Surprise, Chloe!”  
I jump at her and embracing the back.

Chloe startles and shakes herself free. She looks into my eyes,  
“Who the hell are you? Yeesh, you’ve painted me with your nose goo!”  
Chloe still looks the same, but doesn’t remember me, at all? I’ve really painted her shirt red… I thought I wiped everything off with Brooke’s tissue. Time to rewind.

Pulse back behind her. I get a feeling for this, but the ugly sound of a bell and the choking on my throat is the worst.

“Surprise Chloe,” I jump covering my nose this time. Chloe startles and shakes herself free. She iterates, “Who the hell are you? Yeesh, look at your face, get the fuck off!” She is too agitated to talk with her. I start coughing harshly. Chloe enters her car and leaves me. Well, I have to try another way. I’m well trained after all.

I pulse backwards. The strangle palsies my consciousness.

This has been one too many. I’ve had a blackout. The first perceivable elements are the chirping of the birds in the treetops and some students talking to each other. I’m back on the lawn while Brooke is taking care of me. I cough a little. She pets my head softly. I slide my head up onto her lap.

“First Warren, now Max… I’d better stay here and look after you,” she brushes through my hair. I stare up to the deep blue sky and unpack my music player. I hit the resume button. “At the end of the day by Amon Tobin” begins. Okay cool, didn’t know I owned music by him.

I answer to Brook,  
“Yes, stay please,” I see Hayden in the corner of my view in his harem of girls. Some things never seem to change. Nathan crosses our way and looks down to me pretty aggravated. I almost feel guilty… students are nudged away whom stand in Nathan’s way.

However that be, I glance up into the depths of the deep blue sky with one treetop in the bottom left corner. What a nice imagery. Brooke’s fingers are massaging my head. I figure, she had never been so kind to me. The shot occurs a little later. A swarm of birds escapes the treetops. But, I don’t give a crap. Brook looks concerned... Well, I listen to my song till the end and enjoy the massage.

“The fuck was that?” Brooke reacts anxiously.

The engine of Chloe’s truck growls. These random noises together with all electronic instruments in Amon Tobin’s track suit my situation. The birds are one additional set in the composition. The day is  far from over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decisions made by Max (their importance/weight is kept secret):
> 
> -She took her first selfie in Jefferson's photography class  
> -She took another selfie on an empty floor  
> -The rewind-powers were not working anymore, so she determined to meddle with the altered powers  
> -She tried to surprise Chloe but she didn't seem to remember her old friend Max  
> -She accepted Brooke’s help after her nose had bled severely  
> -She decided to stay with Brooke instead of investigating Chloe's weird reaction further or the loud shot of a gun
> 
>  
> 
> “Memorize Max” (Events or occurrences everybody took note of, including Max):
> 
> -Max will remember Brooke’s help and kindness after her nose began to bleed severely  
> -Chloe didn’t recognize Max at the parking lot and was rather disturbed by Max’s surprise attempt


	2. Alternative Amnesia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max starts to enjoy her stay on the stable timeline. Her powers have altered, so the layer itself. Yet, something has happened, that turns her point of view upside down. Will she ever find out and or understand? Using her new powers may hurt over time...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (July 2017) Most recent updates:  
> -linguistical improvements  
> -correction of plenty disjointed sentences  
> -corrected idioms  
> -improved readability by shortening of oversized sentences  
> -dialogues more believable  
> -Max's thoughts are more coherent and relatable

**Chapter 02 – Alternative Amnesia**  
_(Updated July 09 th till 10th 2017) **  
**_ **Theme Song: Yung Sherman & Lil Sad – Hide Forever**

I don’t know how to tackle it but actually, my memory is completely busted that’s for sure. I remember a few things, only. But everything, that I can recall, must’ve altered heavily. Swell! I must get up and interrupt that wonderful massage around my skull. Brooke was doing awesomely. I turn to her and say,

“I’ll have a look around and see what’s going on.” – “Yeah I’ll wait here for Warren. He’s getting some attachment thingy for my drone,” Brook answers.

What? Warren? Let’s have a look on my phone again. Wasn’t he supposed to spam my fricking phone right now? It should’ve blown already. Huh, he had never written a word to me… At the same time, I see Chloe’s not deposited, either. Well, regarding this sinister amnesia as something new, I really start to believe, that a ton of things have changed. Must find out everything. I’ll head to my dorm room first. On my way there, I see a crowd of students standing at the entrance. I try to edge my way through them. I see a lot of grumpy faces on my way in. How could it be, that everybody’s so disturbed at the mere sight of me? Have I changed to a naughty minx just like Victoria has? Those boys and gals, they all share the same disgraceful look towards me. Mocking me… Well, this is, how Kate must’ve very likely felt. Taylor runs past me, almost nudging me away. Crying really loud and sobbing. Her eyes are filled with tears and almost falling to the ground in deep grief. One of the guys in Nathan’s room shouts,

“Fuck! Get us the ambulance here!”

I squeeze myself through the crowd of gawking students. Finally, I’ve made it inside of Nathan’s room. It’s almost impossible to edge myself through the last row. I can’t make it deeper inside of the room. The crowded students behave akin to a sturdy wall. I hope he didn’t shoot Chloe just somewhere else. But considering her leaving the parking lot, she might be fine, after all.

“Fuck me! Nathan shot himself we need fucking help here!” The same guy screams out of the room. Although I hear his words, I’m certain that the students out of the last row can’t hear it anymore. Guess, that the cry for help has suffocated amidst the crowd. I see Nathan’s dead unmoving body lying on the ground. A puddle of blood grows around his head. A clean shot against the right temple. Alright Max, there’s no need to stay at this place.

I clench my fist and pulse backwards in time. I’ll never get used to the choking around my neck. It’s disgusting and it damn hurts.

I’m back at the entrance of Blackwell. Huh? My music player is still blasting music into my ears? I thought I had moved backwards in time. The track should be back at the beginning. Still need to learn a lot more about my Einstein-Powers. I feel the paper ball in my pocket. I cramp it out to read its mean gossip. Maybe it also has changed… it really is changed…

 “In your _selfie-ish_ face!”

Oh, this is so obvious, they think they can mock me with this cheap stuff? I’ll tear the sheet apart, then throw it in the next trash can. The door behind me opens. Warren pats my back. With his swollen face… and hurt barely anywhere I look at, I freeze in shock and step back a foot.

“Gosh Warren. Wha…” – “That was Nathan’s creation… yesterday,” Warren answers. I’m still shocked. What’s wrong with this place? “You’re not looking well, either. It’s all this lunatic’s fault!” He says to me “Brooke took care of me, she’s my angel. I’ll write you later Max,” he adds with a faint smile and pats my shoulder. After that he turns around and heads to Brooke. Sigh, again I’m so sorry for him. Warren embraces Brooke, she cracks a smile as he opens his arms to embrace her. Really… deserved… she gives him a smooch on the left cheek, cute. Well, at least Brooke’s not jealous on this delusive timeline. Seeing both hugging and swaying calms me. A gust of wind raises Brookes hair and slaps in Warren’s face. She immediately apologizes and hugs him even stronger. Oh man, I hope this is the way, Warren is going to be happy with. Warren leaves her, says something I can’t quite understand and points in the direction of the dorms. Apparently, he’s coming back to her, soon for whatever doodad he gets to attach it to Brooke’s drone. Anyway, I must find out a lot more.

Truly, I can’t tell how much things have changed on this layer. And I’m sure my powers _must_ have changed, likewise. My head wants to explode! Now I’m not rewinding, I’m kind of pulsating in two directions. Past and future. I won’t ever understand time-travelling shit, this way or another. What the heck! Here is plenty stuff to examine and to investigate further. I’m eager to know what’ll happen if I jump forwards with another person’s presence. Oh, am I joking about my cutthroat powers, now? I want to go back into class.

I clench my fist again, frightened to asphyxiate. I go back, far back. The tolling of the bell kills me. The choking likely breaks my neck.

During I’ve clenched my fist, I’ve felt the wish to go back into the classroom. I’m back in Jefferson’s lesson. Okay, that means, I’ve got – if nothing else – _some_ control over this pulse-technique, and yet… Jefferson keeps rambling, as always. Urgh shit!

Luckily my nose doesn’t bleed this time. Good, what now? I have to observe this classroom for all important details and most importantly, changed details. What has changed? Stella picks her pen up, Victoria’s phone starts vibrating. So far, so good. Wait! Kate’s not looking sad and tired today. How? Oh my, what about Rachel? This timeline _could_ be the most beautiful dream. I can’t remember the posters but I know they were spread all over Blackwell. Chloe was working very hard to find her. Nice I remember another magnanimous emotion. Repentance… that’s big of you…

I take my very first selfie in Jefferson’s class, again. I can’t remember most of my past, but this beginning feels like the inception of something wonderful. Ohno, Jefferson noticed my shot, again... Just when I thought, I can remember – at least – _something_.

“Now Max, since you’ve captured our interest and clearly want to join the conversation, can you _please_ tell us the name of the process that gave birth to the first self-portraits?” Jefferson asks me.

Not _this_ again!

“I did know! …But I kinda forgot.” – “You either know this or _not_ , Max,” Jefferson answers bummed. Just shut the hell up you disgraceful gross prick! Jefferson continues and insists, “Is there _anybody_ here who knows their stuff?” Yes, I _do_ know my stuff a fucking lot more, than you. Although I’ve gotta admit, I lost almost all my memory.

Victoria kisses ass, again, and very nearly interrupts his question, “Louis Daguerre was a French painter who created ‘daguerreotypes’ a process that gave portraits a sharp reflective style, like a mirror.” she looks at me and goes on, “Now you’re totally buried in your Retro Zone. Sad, selfish psychoface!”

No matter, how harsh Victoria and all the others may’ve changed including their behavior towards me, I won’t care. Kate seems to be fine, that’s what is important. Now, I need to find out about Rachel. If there are no missing posters of her, this timeline is like heaven to me. I’m still feeling like I forgot a damn lot. I’m not in my 18-year young mind, that’s what I can surely tell. Feeling older. However, all events with Chloe are after all partial present. The junk yard, the disabled alternate Chloe, – sigh – the storm… I just don’t understand the thing that happened _before_ Jefferson’s class. What was before _that_?! I had cut through Chloe’s throat and then felt her head on my chest as if it has happened just a second, ago.

Anyways, I’d never consider leaving _this_ timeline, if all the people I care about _are_ happy and hale. I start smiling, close my eyes, and all the sudden, the balled-up paper hits _my_ face. Almost my left eye, to be exact. Why me? What the…

“Perfect hit in your _selfie_ sh face!” Taylor laughs together with Victoria.

“Kids, please! Go do your pesky kindergarten-stuff somewhere else! I’m not here to nurture you, go solve your problems elsewhere!” Jefferson adds, while the school bell starts ringing. I take the paper and throw it inside the next trash can that I’ll pass. Or no, let’s keep it. Just in case. I need to pulse out of this room, but, my throat wouldn’t handle this, if I tried. I need to get out of here surreptitiously. The _normal_ way. I take my stuff off the table and try to abscond by giving Jefferfuck a wiiiiide berth.

“I see you, Max Caulfield. Don’t even think about leaving here until we talk about your entry.” I’m a failure. I apathetically respond “I’ve got no time for this Mister Jefferson. I’m not doing too great!” – “This will have consequences Max.”

Yes sure, shitface I already figured that! Strange how everything has altered here. I think this place bears another sort of flow. Consequences… will they still occur the same? I’m leaving the classroom. Welcome to the _real world_ , right? Zachary is having an argument with Juliet. Miss Grant leaves her Classroom, maybe concerned about the surveillance issue, right? Some stranger leans against the lockers, not blending in with the others. Obviously anxious and nervous. I’ve never seen him anywhere here before. Avoiding to make eye contact with the others. He listens to music similar to metal. Oh yeah, great idea! I take my in-ear headphones and re-escape. What song will _I play_ … Hm. Let’s take, “Shall We? by Tides From Nebula”. A very motivating song yet mysterious song. Let’s see, what’s happening down the floor.

Logan still bullies poor Daniel together with that other random bozo. Presumably, not everything’s changed to the better. The stranger also observes the bullying, stares sadly to the ground and clenches his first infuriated. He heads back to Miss Grants classroom. No missing person poster on the first double door. I leave the building, since Nathan doesn’t flee to the girl’s restroom.

Outside on campus I can’t find one single poster showing Rachel missing. Score! No matter what I have made to fix this, it’s a relieve. Let’s have a look on some more black boards. I walk to one of them next to the Blackwell fountain. All posters are showing the same events, clubs, otters, bigfoots, et cetera. Whoa, music by Amon Tobin on the next Vortex-Club Party? Hell yes, I will go there just for his mind-blowing music! But hey, no missing posters of Rachel Amber, thus far... Considering all this something strange must’ve happened that fixed it all. Fuck why can’t I just remember _one bit_ of this? Was that all just a bad dream, before, or did I manipulate the correct polaroid image, that changed every-fucking-thing to the better? Changes after changes, inside of decisions over choices and blah blah blah.

I hurry to Evan. I remember him owning photographs of Rachel. Wow, where’s his portfolio? I pause my music player and stuff it back inside of the bag.

“Hey, Evan. Where’s your portfolio?” – “Wow, Max! You actually make some use of your voice. Well, still need a model for my portfolio…,” Evan answers surprised. Okay that’s odd. If Rachel survived, she’d definitely be in _his_ portfolio. “How ‘bout Rachel?” – “Rachel… who?” he responds as if I’ve said something totally misplaced. He’s so talented, I can’t imagine him not knowing Rachel Amber. Could it be, that she’s dead, already, but never met Chloe? That would explain a lot… and it would be terrible. Speaking of the devil, Nathan has just nudged me to the ground. I fall down, my head smashes against the stony ground. Yeesh, that hurt. I hear a loud beep in my right ear. Evan shouts something at Nathan and kneels down, to help me get up again. The beeping has almost faded entirely. I must pulse backwards and find out more things, before the shot bangs and resounds through campus. Evan’s hand grabs my wrist…

While he’s helping me to get up, I clench the other fist to pulse forwards. The choke’s not too horrible, this time.

Shit **no**! I wanted it to move backwards! What the hell? I’m in Nathan’s room together with Evan. He let go off my hand and screams, “Holy shit Max. What the fuck are you doing?” Evan flinches and slumps on Nathan’s bed. I’ve moved him with my pulse? I jinxed us... Nathan himself hasn’t noticed us, yet. And he never will. Shooting himself in the head, blood paints the wall and partially splashed in my face, too. Yuck! The sound of humming whales fills this seemingly dead room with some life. Nathan instantly dies and falls to the ground to bleed out there. The shot has made both my ears deaf for a second. I hear students screaming from the outside. At the foot of the bed I sight Nathan. His right hand jiggles one last time. Creepy!

It can’t believe it… Nathan seriously committed suicide. His hatred against himself was even more intense on this layer of time. Seems as if my altered choices intensified his frustration. Or it is just the fact that Chloe didn’t follow him. Well, enough deep thoughts. Back to reality…

He’s left the door open, readied the gun to his skull and pulled the trigger. He has killed himself right in front of the projection of helpless and bonded girls. Disgusting blood on a wall with disgusting images.

A clear shot through his head. Whales keep singing in his painted room. The walls are entirely tinted red. The mindset of a killer, whose only target was… himself. A devotion to… Max why aren’t you shocked anymore? A young student with severe mental issues shoots himself in front of you involving Evan, another student, and you Max, you begin with crappy philosophy? The question is: Must Nathan die so that the truth behind Mr. Jefferson and his atrocious deeds can be revealed? Will Chloe’s Stepdad find out about everything? David was the better detective, to be honest. Well _was_ he, or _is_ he? Does _he_ exist here?

I hear Evan whining and trembling with fear. Yes Even, be _grateful_ to own _another_ gift. Well, after all this, I’ll have a quick look. No last letter, no excuses, no nothing. Nothing suspicious on his email account, either. Evan quivers, so that Nathan’s bed quivers along with him. Okay, Nathan… just killed himself. Yeah, at least he hasn’t killed my blue-haired angel. Wait a minute! She wasn’t blue-haired at the parking lot. She dyed hers red. I slowly figure, that _I_ _am_ the one with horrible amnesia, and not she! I turn around and look into Evan’s pale face. He’s in a deep state of shock. Let’s move backwards, shall we?

I pulse back in time and position while touching Evans shoulder. Hopefully, Evan will be reset to the bench, where he was resting, before. The choking on my neck is the worst. I can’t describe its strangling pressure, that almost breaks my neck. The bell and sound of whales creeps me out. Where does it come from?

I’m back at Blackwell’s entrance. I fall to my knees and start coughing. Swallowing hurts my throat. Tears press themselves out of my eyes because the gorge hurts! I raise my head to look after Evan while grabbling my own throat. He has been reset to his bench. As if all that has never happened… Sigh. A few minutes, ago, I was slowly beginning to enjoy myself on this timeline and now, complexity of literally _everything_ has completely evolved. I rub my right hand through my face. No blood from Nathan. Finally, something pleasant… although I’m still feeling Chloe’s head on my chest. The phantom imprinting… Wherever I might be, I need to find my answers, as quick as possible! Warren leaves Blackwell behind me, too. I look at him. I get up again, quitting the coughing. Warren pats on my back.

“That was Nathan creation… yesterday,” Warren says to me, sadly. I don’t get it. “You’re not looking well, either Max. It’s all that lunatic’s fault!” He says to me wiping away one tear from my cheek “Brooke took care of me, she’s my angel. I’ll write you later Max,” he adds. I can’t respond. He’s going to Brooke, again. I understand, it doesn’t take too long and he leaves her to walk to the dorms. That’s why Brooke was able to take care of me instead. Gosh, I can’t keep track of this mess. I think, I’d better go to the girl’s dorm and forget about everything that has ever happened. I can talk to Chloe, later. I’m starting to get the feeling, that she’ll be fine. I walk past Evan and enter the path to the girls’ dorm. Evan doesn’t recognize me or raise his head as I pass him. His memory is rinsed by rewind-powers. Hmm, should also work as a commercial, shouldn’t it?

I pull my player out of the endless depths of my bag and hit resume. I want to cut myself off this planet. Hide everything I know, forever. Even from myself. If all this is real, my responsibility must be greater, likewise. First my rewind-powers allowed me to keep objects with me. But now, I can also move persons in time **and** position. Phew, I need a break. I better pay my own room a visit.

Let’s find out, what’s at stake. Outside the dorms are Logan and Zachary. Catch the football. The no-brainer’s greatest occupation. Talking about Logan, wasn’t he bullying Daniel a few minutes, before? Anyway, I’m the sicko who lost track of everything. Alyssa reads her stuff on the bench. Her colored strand has remained the same. I enter the dorms, Samuel starts his paintjob. Victoria, Taylor and Courtney aren’t waiting on the stairs. Cool, so I needn’t break Samuel’s paint bucket. I hear the bang of Nathan’s gun. Samuel startles on the ladder and quietly talks to himself, “Huh? Oh please kids, don’t do silly things.”

Yeah Prescott, now this ‘accident’ has happened to you instead. To you instead of whoever could’ve been your inadvertent target. On the way to my room, everything on the floor has remained the same. Okay, even the spread-out toilet paper roll on the bottom… Love to the detail, indeed. Whoever meddled with time inside of this dimension, it had to be a ton of work and maybe even fun.

As I reach my door, I’ll have a quick look on Kate’s slate. She mentions a psalm from the holy bible. Kate isn’t bullied, I deduce. It somehow is uncommon to me, that she’s not suffering, for any longer. I turn around and face _my_ slate.

“BEWARE: Selfiesh Zombie” it says with a pair of tired bloodshot eyes representing the two o-letters. Around the text, I can see that someone erased the multiple time. Apparently, they’ve failed to erase this message. They’ll always find another victim, won’t they? Turning off the music player, I enter my room to face the next big shock. Who the fuck rampaged through my room? I chuck my bag on the sofa. Home, sweet home. My fucking… doom… All my stuff has been thrown around. My wall of polaroid photos has been messed up and dispersed all over the room. On the wall, it says, “Go fuck yourselfie!” What a coincidence, yet again. Déjà-vu. I almost missed Victoria’s retarded comments, but a vandalized room is too much. Dammit, the strings of my guitar are cut.

I’ll sit down on my bed. Where’s my teddy? Gosh, they tore his head off and impaled him on Lisa’s stick. Lisa is also trampled dead. Oh man. If I was Poison Ivy… oh, my mother has just messaged me. Let’s have a look,

“Hi honey Your principal sent me an email saying that he is concerned about your attitude and behavior that you are not fitting in well and hiding in your dorm I know it’s hard to be away from home even if you are all grown-up now. But you are there to change the world with your camera please call me soon to chat we miss you! Xxoo mommy”

 **Hell**! No periods anywhere! Same damn message, but, totally different world. Maybe I’ll write a thesis about “alternate changes” in place of analogue photography. Occurrences and events which remain the same over and over, although everything, – surrounding it – changes. I look away from my phone. There is one question that gnaws in my mind. How do I look like? I face the mirror, which has a big crack in the top right corner, now.

I see myself in the reflection. I look more akin to a dead body. Deathly pale… By just looking in my own reflection I start to realize, that I’m the one, who is the bullied. A giant red bruise circuits around my neck. The strength in my legs languishes.

\--------

Falling to the ground, I notice an ugly sound of a bell. I black out for one moment.

\--------

I can’t see a thing. A fierce, pure tone fades, a knocking becomes louder. It is Kate. For no apparent reason, I’ve changed my position onto my chair facing the desk. Strange…, blacking out for one second and **bam** , you are somewhere else. My stereo plays “Yung Sherman and Lil Sad – Hide Forever”. Cool, another song that perfectly blends with my midlife-crisis-situation. Whatever incantation made my stereo play this song, it’s terrific.

Kate slowly approaches me. She really looks concerned. What about the balled-up paper? I might show it to her. Wait, where is it? Dammit! Another error, again. I knew this pulsing-rewinding-story is my next calamity.

I clench my fist and try to move far backwards and keep my position. My head almost explodes. The strangle on my throat feels like it wants to cut through.

I’m back on my chair. My head terribly aches. Is this how a hangover feels like? A knocking on my doorstep becomes louder. My brain can’t handle the pain. Nosebleeds all over again, **fuck**... So… is that it? What’s the intention of this bell-signal? My blood drips on my first selfie from Jefferson’s lesson. I don’t get it. The paper ball vanishes but the polaroid remains. Oh swell, the blood seeps into the polaroid. It’s ruined. On my first run-through, I spilled soda on Kate’s book and now I spoil my very first selfie. Sweeping!

Kate approaches me again. As my head’s not clear, I’ll try to answer as short as possible. Damn, my blood keeps running.

“Hi, Max…,” she starts off.  
Me: “Oh… Hey, Kate.”  
Kate: “Max, listen to me.”  
Me frightened: “I…I am.”  
Kate: “Always remember that you’re not alone. I’ve got your back, no matter what happens. God will guide us, and a lot of other people, too. We all care, we’re all here for you. You need to know that.”  
Me, totally stunned: “I’m… glad to see you like… Kate… you’re great.  I… I don’t know what to say…”  
Kate smiles: “That’s okay, neither do I. Maybe…”.  
Me, jumping at her: “…we could both use a hug? Aww. …you always know the right thing to do!”

Embracing her I feel Kate’s bony body. On the other hand, she has become a lot stronger. For some reason, I start to try cry in an instant. Kate leans back to look in my face, with a soft smile… I cry with stutters, “This is my fault. All of it. I turned this entire world upside down. This won’t solve things!”

Kate’s mouth opens. Apparently intrigued by my despicable looking face. I see a wide stain of blood on her shoulder. I must remove it! Yet, I cannot pulse back, it would literally kill me. Deal with it Max!

“Christ, Max. Hopefully, I’m not too late,” Kate wonders and looks on her shoulder briefly “I actually came here to tell you, that Mr. Jefferson asked, to see you again at six, since you slept through his entire course, today,” she adds. “I slept through the entirety of class?” I ask with irritation. “Yeah, only God knows why those nasty girls treat you like the devil. I’d also look like you, if I was in your situation!” Kate answers. This day is getting weirder and weirder. And yet, I haven’t found out, what’s going on. “After all, the new student from abroad seems to really be a sensible person.” she continues. New what? No! I’ve got no space for this in my mind. I stammer, “Stop it Kate! Please hug me again!”

My heart loudly cries for more. She instantly embraces me again. Her tight hold makes me forget about the phantom pain on the chest a bit. The song has just finished. A mellow noise remains. “Don’t let go,” I tell her with wobbly voice. I hear students scream. They obviously crowded themselves around Nathan’s corpse. Together with Kate, we are far away from him. We are in _our_ own hell. Well, Kate pays me the visit in my own hell. I hear the clicking-sound of a shutter. Victoria has taken a picture of Kate and me. I forgot to close the door behind so it obviously was opened the whole time.

“Aww, the nun taking care of the selfie. … too cute,” she ridicules us. “Don’t you want to go to the others and enjoy a _better_ disgusting view?” Kate aggressively snaps back. Victoria leaves without commenting. “You know about Nathan?” I whisper to Kate. “I prayed for him, already. May God forgive for his sins. Yesterday, he threatened me to burn all my drawings with the bible, for no reason. After that he totaled Warren, ‘coz he was ‘in his way’ in front of you. And a minute, ago, I crossed your room and thought that… I thought… you deserve better…!” she answers determined. I hugged her tighter. I see, Nathan’s suicide bummed her, however she tries to play the strong person in front of me.

“Would you mind me, if I asked you something?” – “Do _you_ have any other choice?” I answer still crying a bit. “Shall we go to the police? It’s not funny, what happened at the party. It’s dangerous, y’know?” – “ **Enough**! Please stop it Kate!” I don’t believe it. I fucking hate this dimension. I don’t belong here. If there is a video about me, too… I swear to God, I won’t abide. This is, how she had to have felt, when I was talking to her. Humiliated, devastated, drowning in remorse.

I’ve actually totally forgot to think about Chloe. I hope, she’s still fine. After all, I begin to think that I am running out of odds. Victoria passes my room crying. Yeah, hopefully this has taught you a serious lesson! Kate smiles at me and says, “Hey Max, I’ll help you pinning back all your photos to the wall, ok?” I carefully chuckle and nod, while the last tears leave my eyes. “I’ve never seen you smiling. It’s… saccharine. Oh please, do this more often!” Kate bursts with pleasure. Even though, I wanna hide forever and fade away, she gives me some fresh energy. And for right now, I’m a bit glad about my vexing amnesia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decisions made by Max (their importance/weight is kept secret):
> 
> -She chose to read the message of the paper ball  
> -She didn't answer Warren at the entrance of Blackwell, at all  
> -She took her first selfie in class again  
> -She didn’t answer Jefferson's question properly  
> -She left without talking to Jefferson about the submission  
> -She didn’t help Daniel who was being bullied by Logan again  
> -She told Evan about Rachel Amber  
> -She time travels together with Evan albeit he couldn’t remember anything after moving backwards  
> -She didn't stop Nathan from committing suicide  
> -She checked Kate's slate for bullying gibberish  
> -She pulsed too much after passing some sort of time checkpoint and ruins her polaroid with nosebleeds  
> -She smiled in front of Kate which made her very happy  
> -She didn't answer Kate's question about going to the police  
> -She agreed with Kate to tidy up her dorm room
> 
>  
> 
> “Memorize Max” (Events or occurrences everybody took note of, including Max):
> 
> -Evan might be affected to the mutual time travel  
> -Max found out that Kate wasn’t depressed


	3. Another suspension of disbelief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the suicidal incident, Blackwell’s world turns upside down. The same way, Max feels. All occurrences give her the assurance, that everything shall be fine. Despite her naïve thoughts, she makes a mistake that she’ll never get out of her system.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (July 2017) Most recent updates:  
> -linguistical improvements  
> -correction of plenty disjointed sentences  
> -corrected idioms  
> -improved readability by shortening of oversized sentences  
> -Max's thoughts are less erratic and more comprehensible  
> -small details have been added  
> -logical errors removed and corrected  
> -removed plenty abbreviations in Max's chain of thoughts  
> -punctuation improved  
> -it's easier to empathize with characters after adding more actions and more dialogue  
> -corrected grammar at some places  
> -overall polish for this is a crucial chapter within the story

**Chapter 03 – Another suspension of disbelief**  
_(Updated July 16 th till 18th 2017)_ **  
Theme Song:** **Muse – Hyper Chondriac Music**

The ambulance was too late. Sure thing, Nathan shot a bullet through his skull. Apparently, this is my first day on this timeline. I’m sick and tired, already. No matter how hard you try to change something you’ll never be able to calculate the repercussions. Monday, amnesia, mocking, vandalized room, suicide and pulsing- instead of rewinding-powers have already piled up. Christ, I knew that Friday the thirteenth is the most superstitious garbage. Well, fathoming all thoughts doesn’t simplify this weird situation by itself. Kate is safe and sound, by all means and the Prescott’s boy has left this planet. I’ll find out more about Rachel and Chloe, as soon as my overly complicated situation has calmed down a tad. Perhaps, I’m gonna get me a high dose of valium… or a mental enema.

Policemen with heavy armor walk around in our dorms and ask dumb questions about Nathan. Don’t tell me they don’t know shit about the Prescott family. Oh well, forgot that they’re paid by the Prescotts. Speaking of the devil, I haven’t seen David, among the racket. I hope he’s not an even more abusive stepdouche on this layer.

Due to Kate’s help, my room looks finally tidy. Can’t get rid of the typo daub on the wall… Nonetheless, it is now time for the notorious Maximus-proverb: home, sweet home… my favorite cocoon. Quite interesting to see completely different polaroid images. What have I become? The images all show pretty much darker themed sceneries. With stronger emphasis on bloom and shadow. I’ll have a look on my mirror reflection. How comes, my throat is heavily injured… like… for real?! I’ll have a closer look in the mirror. A red, uber-thick bruise surrounds my neck. At first, I thought this visual horror was just my brain. But it really is there. So, thinking I left the horror all behind was a complete lie. One crack inside of the mirror draws a cut through my gorge. Gosh, don’t remember me about that stuff! Damn, I’m feeling sick by just thinking about it. I’d better go to Kate, she seems to be the only sensible person in this godforsaken place called: Blackwell Academy.

On the way down to her dorm room, I feel the grief weighing us all down. Or maybe it’s just me moving and looking like a total loser. A brief look down on my legs, explains it all: almost no muscles on my thighs nor my calves. I became really lean – a skeleton. Well, maybe I should get Joyce’s high carb, high fat meal. Bacon with… uh I’m drooling. Dana sees me wiping the spit away in mid-air. She keeps crying while leaning against the wall behind her, though. She and her appearance has changed significantly, and yet, she’s beautiful.

I reach Kate’s door, I knock on it. With a smile on her face, she opens the door as I instantly pass out and feel my body falling somewhere on her… Brain obviously had too much of it… How predictable. I resurrect on Kate’s lap… okay, that was not reasonable to say Max... But let’s accept her religious attitude. I’ll call Kate’s room along with her kindness: Holy lair of charity. She comforted me, took care of my splayed polaroid images, my messy room, and, after all this shit she now pets my head just like Brooke did on campus. I’m slowly getting fond with these head-massage-after-bullshit things. To be honest, Brooke was doing terrifically awesomely, but Kate’s love is different. Humble and joyful. Light floods the room and stings in my eyes. A good burn, similar to a bad headache. Diverging feelings… outside the window, you can watch very deep into the woods. Magnificent what a sight. Nothing else to add here. I love her place and I love her energy. We haven’t shared a word, and we’ve kept this going, until the end of my attendance. I see her violin. Her strings aren’t cut. Maybe she’ll play some wonderful melodies the next days.

As I leave her chamber of love, she keeps up her gorgeous smile. At the end of the floor, I see two police officers continuing to ask the students dumb questions about Nathan. A window behind them glints light through the floor. Migraine incoming? Now, those policemen appear like sinister shadows on an endless hallway with the bright light behind them. One covers the other shadow. Oh, are we the bad girls, now? Hell, what’s wrong with this place. I’m heading to my room. On my way there, I see my feet walking over those shadows of both the policemen. Eerie for some reason.

I see Alyssa being totally absent, who’da thunk? I walk past her, drag her a little. “Max, what’s wrong…?” she asks confused concurrently with this the toilet paper leaves the restroom and almost hits her head. I mumble vacantly, “You’re welcome.” One police officer frowns at me, I change my look to the bottom. Stains of blood… somebody must’ve walked through Nathan’s blood puddle. Yeesh! I enter my room and close the door behind. The gates of hell transcending down into the Maximus-abyss. With my back leaning against the door, I’m slipping down to the ground. I feel my bony buttocks. My phone vibrates. Sorry! Whomever I cannot respond, I’ve got other problems, at the moment. Second important objective – after saving Chloe’s ass – is getting some shape around _my ass_ back. I look up on my desk, the laptop’s clock shows 5:45pm. What now? Maybe I’d better go and see, whether or not Jefferson wants to talk to me - oh pardon - I mean _lecture_ me. I grab my bag from the sofa and open the door. Never guessed, opening a door could be so unique, since two police men block the only way out.

The front officer starts pissed off, already, “Good afternoon Miss… eh, why leaving?” – “I’ll go back to Blackwell campus,” Avoiding eye contact, I really hope they just leave me alone. “I… we hope you won’t mind us asking a few questions about your de-- fellow student Nathan Prescott,” Without having a chance to answer, they enter and shut the door while walking in. Two tall men inside my room. Gives me the head-creep-ache. “First, may you tell us your name, please,” he commands me – “Caulfield,” I mutter. “Okay Miss… Cornfield, what do you think were Mister Prescott’s biggest issues?” he asked with a very unfriendly tone. “He had a sharp eye for shadows…” – “Miss Cornfield, will you respond to my questions properly, or won’t you?” he bellows. “Max, you’re in here,” my door opens and Warren squeezes himself through both officers. Yay! Another member joining us into the Maximus-abyss. Warren hugs me tightly. Ugh! “Ho-- how dare you, what are you doing…?” the officer screams infuriated.

Warren still embracing me: “What she deserves, this is all too much for her!”  
Officer pointing in my direction: “What’s that bruise on your neck, is it self-inflicted?”  
Me, not caring about it at all: “If that’s all, you can see…”  
Warren screams back: “Can’t you just leave us alone here, please?”  
Officer deductive: “I see…” watches my wall, whispers to himself “‘Go fuck yourselfie’ hmm… really welcoming,” after this back to Warren and me, “Seems like you’ve known him very _well_.”  
Warren seriously: “Yeah, he’s the mastermind of anger, if that’s what you think we knew… _well_ enough.” faces both officers, yet keeps hugging me: “Look, how he thrashed my face! Look, how he… treated Max,” raising his left hand to draw the attention to my neck.  
Officer flying off the handle: “Mister… I ask you to leave the room, one last time!”  
2nd Officer restrained whispers: “C’mon, leave ’em already…”  
Officer angry: “Mark, you know this was a Prescott?”  
2nd Officer calm and sensible: “They’re both benign. Let’s check the next student’s room…”

“Why are you doing this Warren?” – “I heard, that Nathan rampaged together with Victoria through your room,” is his – me not telling anything – answer. “Yeah, it would be nice, if Samuel could paint this darn message a--…” – “…Max, you told ’em anything about the photos taken at the party?” Shit! Now I’ve heard enough. It certainly is a pain knowing that this outrageous occurrence may’ve intensified the bullying against me. “No, and I don’t know if I ever will!” is my quick answer. “Sorry Warren, I’ve gotta go.” – “No Max look at this!” Warren walks to my desk and searches up a photo album on social-shitwork, I guess. But I don’t want to bide the slow booting up of my laptop. I’ve got no time for this. I leave him in my room. If all the horror at Blackwell is represented as _my_ face, Jefferson definitely ain’t no monster, after all.

Outside the dorms, there are a lot of medics, policemen and other fellow students. Either crying, chatting or on the phone. Blackwell in deepest chaos, bigger than after Kate’s death. Oh Max, she’s alive and she will stay. Zachary comforts Juliet, Dana cries out her eyes on the other bench of the yard. All alone. Poor thing. Miss Grant looks bummed. Maybe I’ll ask her, what’s the matter… despite Nathan being dead. An inbound call on her mobile… later then Miss Grant I guess.

I walk along the path back up to Blackwell campus. Just around the corner and my face bangs against somebody’s back. I’ve stumbled across him, sigh… David Madsen with the facial expression as if he hadn’t taken a dump for at least a week. Pointing with the finger at me he starts bidding, “You! I know you’re hiding. I see you! Don’t you think you can play games with me! I know who you are.” so this is, how Chloe had to suffer for ages. This man is fucking scaring the shit outta me. I can’t even think about something useful to calm him. “Mister Madsen! Leave her alone. A photographer is not hiding anything…,” Mark Jefferson defends me. He has said that from above the stairs. I hear Brooke’s drone buzzing around. But I can’t spot it at the sky. Normally, she’d race that thing around us, but this time, there’s no drone to find. I leave David, he presumably hasn’t transformed into the rather sensible Stepdad, yet. Dammit, I feel the anger against him. “Max, since you’ve napped through my photography class today, **entirely** , I would’ve been remiss, if I hadn’t talked to you, afterwards. I don’t want to ignore my job as a photography teacher. Come and meet me in our classroom, Max,” Jefferson commands me, turns around and leaves at a rattling pace. David doesn’t move at all, although I feel the anger boiling through his chest.

After going up the stairs, I reach the campus. Emptiness à la dystopia. Except for this stranger from the floor, after my photography session. He’s resting on the bench, Evan was sitting at over one hour ago. This stranger’s talking on a cellphone, but uses a different language. The student from abroad, right? At the same time, I notice, I’m not devoting myself to the powers, anymore. I’m not feeling as if I had all the time in the world. Perfect, they’re painful anyways. I haven’t drunk any water since… I don’t remember when I drank for the last time. Maybe I’ll get myself a cold soda inside Blackwell. Jefferson doesn’t seem to be the human infamy, here. Considering David obviously is the mean douchebag… it could be that everything will heal up by itself. I’ve just gotta abide the scorn a bit longer, and then everybody will be living his or her happy life.

I enter Blackwell, asking myself, why Jefferson would talk to a student after a suicide incident. In an empty Academy? Maybe I should pulse back and ask him that in front of David. Principal Wells confronts me on my way in. “Miss Caulfield, would you mind me, if I asked you something about the most recent vortex-party?” all those ‘would you mind me…’-questions slowly begin to push it over the edge. Dammit, who will ever know, what’s wrong with this place? “I’m not sure Sir.” – “So, I heard some rumors about ‘things’ no sensible woman – like you – should doth,” Principal Wells answers in his dull way of speaking. As if he was ever giving a shit about the stuff, women ‘doth’ on parties. All he cares about is getting drunk because he can’t stomach his own job. I try to answer, “Sir Wells, Nathan… he--” – “Exactly Miss Caulfield. I must talk to you about that incident with you and Mister Prescott. I know, this was a rough day, but… eh--,” he interrupts himself. He glimpses on his watch, then he raised his arm to have a closer look since he can’t believe the time he already has wasted. In a hurry, he kills our nonsense conversation, “Pardon me, Miss Caulfield I’ve totally forgotten about the time. We need to discuss a few things with Blackwell’s new student from abroad. Could you please wait here for five more minutes, Officer Turner will be present then, too?” Top ten ways to kill a totally redundant conversation after a student’s suicide… First place: Be the confused Principal Wells.

What the hell ever. My head doesn’t ache too badly. Maybe the trick is, not to pulse repeatedly. Well, let’s see what Jefferson has to tell me. I follow the floor along the lockers and posters. The door to Jefferson’s class is opened. Dead hollow rooms of Blackwell. I have to be very cautious about this. There’s still the high possibility that he is, yet again, the same whacky lunatic. I enter the classroom. Jefferson is not present. I should just wait. As long as he’s not pointing with a gun at me. I plug in my headphones. Muse’s song “Hyper Chondriac Music” will carry me through the evening. Whoa melancholy has a melody? I had never thought, I’d owned tracks by Muse. Should check all my playlists and changed taste in music anyway.

I see the photograph of our class pinned on the billboard. Everything as _usual_. The only retouch – it apparently went through – was Kate’s face being swapped with mine. Yeah, time travel has some gruesome retouch powers, at the end of the day. Not only by rinsing somebody’s memory or traveling back in time, but also in retouching captured moments of time itself. There is so much truth hidden in one photograph. The only truth kept inside a photo. Andre Bazin knew what he was talking while writing the ontology of the photographic image. Gee, I should study more stuff. And Hitchcock would only envy me for those skills. On the other hand, nobody ever strangled him while editing analogue footage… yuck, this timeline converts me to a cynical minx. Never fricking mind… where the fudge is Mister ‘insert any desired pejorative name here’? Jesus, I want to leave this creepy room of terrifying memories. I hear the double doors shutting. Footsteps approaching the classroom.

“Hello Max, thanks for coming by,” Jefferson leans against the door. Wearing black gloves. I lower the volume on my music player. Warning! Max, this is not good! I step back to the window, looking at him stone still. I cast a long, unsharp shadow on him. I’m not going to lose my line of sight with you again. Here’s still enough daylight in Arcadia Bay. You can’t jump at me out of the darkness. You’ll need to come closer at me first. “I told Kate, I’m worried about your… behavior. Before that, I told Mister Wells. I know, you have something special to share with us Max...” – “I’m good…,” I see on the left side of the classroom the balled-up paper next to my table. I turn my head back to Jefferson fast. He has made a few silent steps towards me. My shadow engulfs him. He obviously is stressed, but yet prepared. I must get out of here, now!

I clench my fist and think about leaving this place. Moving the position outside of Blackwell. I am not doing well. I think I’ve made a mistake.

\--------

While pulsing, I hear the ugly acutely tolling of the bell.

\--------

I black out. I lose control over space and time. Muse’s song fades. Sorry, Einstein-Powers…

Hangover. Everything hurts. The pure tone in my head constantly beeps. A deep burning sting on my neck is sore and burns like acid. I can’t hear anything. My ears only seem to catch the soft noise of the ocean. Or is it the noise of my brain? Noise that doesn’t make any sense. Slowly but surely, I catch the sweeping sound of humming critters. Whales? The urgent wish to open my lids aches on my eyes. I can’t. I’m too weak. What on earth has paralyzed me? Please, let me leave this hellhole. At the beginning of this day, I thought that I was living a wonderful dream, but _this_ is **nothing** good. This fight should’ve been over, long time ago.

My hands are taped together. So are my feet. Gradually I regain eyesight. A blur. Dammit Max. You’d better know how to focus. I’ve got the very unpleasant feeling inside my gut, that I’m back at some place, that I never wanted to sense around me ever again. This scent… I’m not hearing very clearly, neither does my vision work a bit. My eyes shut, the blur is suffocated by darkness. This time it’s my nose, which starts working. This plastic, those tripods, this… bunker. **No**! I’m not back here, am I? Shit! But wait, there’s another component in this room’s scent. Alcoholic breath exhaled against my face. Cheers, yuck! Whoever is in close vicinity to me, there’re only two people who could likely come into my mind. One of those splayed his brain on a wall, already. Possibly, you can find the never-ending-why with a forensic scientist and puzzle all the pieces together. Fuck this world why am I back here again? I’m scared and my heart wants to race, but the only thing that I can do, for sure, is thinking. My heart slows down. I’m getting drowsy… maybe should sleep… in a heartbeat…

I hear somebody’s scream. All the sounds are almost deaf. The stitch in my neck is disgusting. I’m sitting on some sort of chair. Around my neck, I feel a strong pressure. Gosh, no strangling, please. The pressure on my gorge increases, chokes me almost unconscious… A loud scrunch goes through my body. A despicable sound. Somewhere in this room… a bell tolls at the same time. I feel the vibe’s location. However, it’s **not** happening inside my head because I’m not using my pulsing-powers. This isn’t me who does that. Fucking put an end to this! All this makes me feel like I’m mentally drowned. I want to go home, leave this place in some other way. I can’t talk. My mouth’s numbed, my jaw prickles when I try to move a muscle. Only my body answers with grave pain. All limbs twitch instinctively, shaking, having convulsions. Yet, the weakness in my head doesn’t stop. I can’t open my God-fricking eyes. If somebody could look inside of my mind, what would he think? Who’s the bigger sicko? Definitely not Jefferson! He is the plain and pure example of a gutless psychopath.

My ears start working and perceive some noises. And color me impressed, I wasn’t mistaken. The weird noise was humming of whales. Kind of something calming inside this dreadful pit. Chloe, wherever you are… I don’t know why you didn’t recognize me at the parking lot. But you must know, that I made every feasible decision to save your life. _You_ deserved it. Not I. By all means, I am not the one, who is designed to be loved or liked… missed or bemoaned… This timeline proves it, undoubtedly. My loopy amnesia also is a sign. All this and I just couldn’t keep in touch with you, as expected. No letters, no visiting you, no being there for you and I don’t know why to this day. I just can’t fucking remember _anything_ that made this timeline loop all over. I’ve consigned my final thoughts to you, before I’m going to leave. Obviously, I’m Blackwell’s first _missing_ victim. I’ll black out again in a bit or maybe shortly… this is it… I feel a last choke from this ugly thing around my neck, which I cannot see. I hear myself cough and fighting. A very dead sound via my ears. My body gives up… all muscles relax. Losing a fight is honest, as well? Is this, what Jefferson meant?

Argh, my throat… eyes… weakness. Ugh. The paralysis fades. I regain more eyesight. What a surprise, the fucking Dark Room Jefferson had put me in. His nether lands. With my hands taped, I’m lying on the ground, again. He seemingly wants to capture my honest moments. Fighting for every new drawn breath. Jefferson kneels down to frame my helplessness, his so-called ‘beauty’. I want to listen to music, finish the song I’ve played, before I passed out. I want to escape. Sigh. I see, “Helpless like you by Nero Argento”. Try, Scare, Lose, **Waste**! Please, toss me the power of music. I can’t stomach this ugly melody of whales… And again, I don’t know how I’ve bethought a song I had never heard before. The song’s lyrics became so clear. As if I’ve listened to it a million times.

I begin to hear more clearly… “I was right! The slightly unconscious model is often the most open and _honest_. No vanity or posing, just… hell you are so beautiful Max…” not again, I must move! “Hold that stare there! Don’t you fucking ruin this shot!” he yapps at me. Darn, he scares me so much, it intensifies the tranquilizer’s potency. Each of my muscle’s twitch feels like the painful burn of acid. I’ll be a skeleton, this way or another. Unfortunately, I completely lost all memory about how horrible this guy was. Always the same old story that only I know. I’ve completely lost control over my – taped together – arms. The slow wind of breath in my nostrils is the only orientation about my life. I’ve got no control over anything. Just those billions of thoughts keep convolving themselves in that obnoxious precipice called Caulfield’s-Mind. I can only imagine… “ **Stay still**!” thanks for the pleasant interruption Mister Jefferson…

Some control over the muscles returns… I move my left leg. “Oh Max, you fucking ruined my shot again!” he screams in deepest anger. This anxiety… this sinister anxiety to lose this game, to fail… it’s back. I’m frightened to lose inside of this ginormous maze. I fucked up! I had too many possibilities to walk around this unholy path, but I kept being nosy… or human. Combine a human with my powers. Immortality? Are you dead serious? The executioner stands in front of me, preparing my paralyzed body for his artistic arousal. Me, I am his first victim… “I love the purity of your own image…,” he continues and kneels down to ramble even more, “Y’know, if only Nathan could see this... Max, you… you are a miracle… precious. Magic,” this gives me the creeps! Let me out, “… _groan_ …” first try always fails. “Fuck Max, you ruined such a perfect frame! Stay the **fuck** still!” don’t you touch my body! Jefferson grabs my foot to get my helplessness back into its _appropriate_ pose. Disgusting filth! You know what’s the most horrible thing, inside? I still feel Chloe’s head on my chest. As if it was a minute ago. The phantom pain remains, even anaesthetized… The palsied condition doesn’t make this pain wither. I don’t feel my heart racing, I don’t feel my limbs. It’s all dead, except the phantom imprint of Chloe, bleeding out on my chest. Sigh, everything is going to be in vain. But, as long as Chloe is safe together with Rachel, I’ll be ok. I see Jefferson picking up a syringe. My final blackout I assume… “… _groan_ … Chloe…,” my heart has screamed. It’s like rotting in vain…

“How do I get home? Everything revolves around me.” …huh? I’m back. Emptiness, void…darkness. Cut me a break. I’m back on a chair. Bonded strangled on my gorge. What is he testing? If the last freaking deed is Max Caulfield hanging then finish me off! This game had been played too far. It had been lost way back… in those days, when Chloe and I tried to find answers about Rachel’s whereabouts. Now me, I am the one, who’ll leave and whom they dig under the junk yard. Life is a game. A game with self-made rules. Everybody can join and ruin the board, as they pleases. And whatever fucking force gave me rewind powers: How dare you? You’d think, I ever was to escape dystopia, if I had been given magic powers?

Jefferson hits the bell and strangles my throat, simultaneously. I can hear the camera’s shutter. One click for each time my defenseless body fights against Jefferson’s… _something_ around my neck and this atrocious anesthetic. You know, how much this phantom pain had evolved, since you fucking sedated me? Jefferson chokes me, again. My weak eyes open up to a little gap. Barely enough space to see the room as a complete blur. A blurred tripod in front of me… I watch deeply into the camera’s lens. Hope, your ‘captures’ are fucking worth it Jefferson. If you ever touch Chloe again, I’ll reincarnate and burn you alive while capturing your execution. And I will enjoy watching you burn. Seeing him preparing the next dosage makes me sick. My eyes are much stronger now, I can move my limbs or… at least I think that I can move them. More light enters the iris, but everything’s still blurry.

“Why… are--” – “Sh, shh, Max… the ‘ _why’_ doesn’t matter. You’ve been captured in _your_ peace… your perfection. You are beautiful. I knew this, since you made your first… selfie, urgh hate that word!” Oh man I just want to kick into your artistic tiny balls, anything, just shut your trap! “You… are a piece of shit…” I clench my fist and… I won’t survive a pulse. I don’t want to execute me myself. “Max, …nobody will be neither surprised nor care about your disappearance. Though I promise… people cared today, when Nathan blew his head in the dorms. And this time he didn’t blow cocaine, haha. Oh well, superb grades for some… _experiments_ with him paid their heavy price, didn’t they? He made some nasty pictures with you, didn’t he? While being drugged, too, haha!? Well, he knew too much anyway.” nobody will care, when I die? I don’t think so. “You know Max, when I saw Kate, today… she might be the better choice in terms of _purity_. Perhaps, she’ll beat your _perfection_!” Jefferson plays with both his hands and waves them about. One of them with the loaded syringe. The needle glints in the bright lights behind him. I’m only guessing it’s the syringe, but he’s so very close, it must be obvious. The huge load prepared for me to enter the eternal sleep. I’m going to feel with you alternate… disabled Chloe… My vision fades, the colors desaturate. Jefferson gets up. I hear a bang… Jefferson flinches and runs away from me.

I recognize a lot of ropes on the wall, since the blur decreases, bit by bit. Was he taking pictures of me with all sorts of ropes? My heart accelerates, increases its pounding against my chest. Maybe the paralysis fades… I hear men screaming something. Jefferson tries to flee and faces my direction. A heavily armored man follows and catches him. The syringe leaves Jefferson’s hand flying… right into my left arm. I’ve barely seen it, but haven’t felt the stitch yet. A couple of other men enter the room, aiming loaded guns inside the room. They’re also wearing body armor. Obviously, FBI or SWAT guys. Evidently, nothing works straight on this particular timeline. For what I can tell, Arcadia Bay has no secret operating police forces around. Only police. “Get us a paramedic here!” the guy arresting Mr. Jefferson bellows. “And get Madsen here. He knows the girl!” another out of the team screams, while leaving the room. Shit! I – in all seriousness – survived this hell. I’m losing consciousness, while my heart is on a race…

I reawake inside the ambulance truck. David is by my side. “David…” – “It’s Mr. Madsen to... Excuse me… I’m sorry for everything that happened to you. I never was the designated peacemaker, but I had my reasons. Do you understand me?” somehow foreign. He talks like a total loser. His facial expression looks rather sensible, again. Déjà-vu... “How’s Chloe?” – “My family is not your concern! Excuse my words… this day was a pain,” my throat hurts while swallowing because it parched. Forgot to get the soda in Blackwell… Damn this world! One paramedic interrupts us, “Excuse me Mister… Madsen. I’d like to ask Miss Caulfield some questions.” – “Sure, you’re doing a great job sol… Sir.” Who’da thunk it? Same ol’ Stepdouche, after all. My vision has replenished entirely – asides the desaturated colors – although my head is pounding as hell. “Alright Maxine, can you tell me the date? Monday, Tuesday? Or Year?” – “I… I guess it’s Friday. Eh, 2013…” I stammer. Wobbly voice, don’t mess this up. “It’s Monday... so what has happened… what happened, yesterday, or the day before that?” – “I can’t remember… I… I kinda forgot.” no Max no! The paramedic turns away and talks to the other paramedic at the wheel, “Better keep her.” Damn, no… I’ve recalled false details of another timeline…

I clench my fist and try not to go too far away. The acute bell tolls. Whales sing their melodies. The choke-effect felt like all ropes on Jefferson’s wall strangle my neck. I feel myself crying…

I’m back on the ground. The syringe already sticks in my left arm. The Policeman arrests Jefferson. I stark coughing like never before. The Policeman immediately drags the syringe out of my arm and touches my face with his bulletproof cold gloves. On the glass shield of his helmet, I can see my own reflection. Behind the helmets bulletproof glass his focusing tired eyes. I see compassion, apprehension and partially anxiety. He screams, “Paramedic, as long as this girl breathes!” Another Policeman kicks Jefferson away from the chair. Away from me. Jefferson rolls against the big locker with a bummed grumble exiting his nose. “What the fuck do you think are you doing to that poor girl?” the other Police guy yells at him. The stereo inside the locker begins to play melodies from the wailing whales. The Policeman, who dragged out the syringe, cuts the tape off my arms and legs and picks me up.

I start crying, since the sound of the whales is disturbingly loud. I also see the bell, that Jefferson must’ve used all the time, when he strangled me. I’m too weak to pulse again. This is pathetic. I’ve got no leftover strength to look back and see the instrument that Mister Jefferson had to use all the time he strangled me… David comes across, “How’s she--“ – “She’ll be fine, thanks Sir Madsen,” the guy carrying me immediately responds to him. “David…,” I grab his arm with some strength, I can concentrate on “Tell me… how’s Chloe… please…” – “Miss Caulfield you need medical treatment, now!” the guy carrying me says. “Officer...please,” I’m begging you. He looks down to me. The scent of plastic, the armor vest… I can’t see the human through his shroud of synthetics. But I can somewhat feel his heart… the despair… the worry. “I want… listen… my music in the ambulance. My bag must be… somewhere...” – “Sure, I’ll see to it, that you get it. You can call me Mark!” he says in a sad way. Wait a sec! Was he the tall policeman who interrogated me? Mark… the sensible Officer behind the schmuck Officer from the dorms today? Let’s stop thinking… Outside the barn, the ambulance awaits me.

The double door wings from the barn are opened widely. Jefferson’s car is parked next to the old tractor. It’s getting dark outside. Sure, it’s evening. The cool winds of the fall sweep my skin and makes my hair fly against the rigid shroud of a sensible policeman. He carries me, as if my body weights less than a hundred pounds. The gentle gust scents akin to the woods refined with some fresh salt-breeze in it. My eyes become weaker, as I see us getting closer to the ambulance. The white-red flickering lights on its roof. Things begin to move in slow motion… all the sudden, everything begins to blur… All white elements begin to bloom. Everything shines so bright… I’m blind.

“If I can’t find myself? I am so completely fake! Yeah, I remember that spot, where you thought about a fitting song by Pendulum.” Where am I? Gosh, I see myself wearing a white tunic and sitting in front of… me on the other side of a small table. Never is _this_ a reflection of a mirror. Either this is a bad dream, or I am going nuts. “Yeah sure you are, welcome back. Reality, somewhere nice, I guess,” she moves her lips and I hear her words. So fluent, so true. She can hear, what I am thinking. Why shouldn’t she? It’s definitely… me. “You always wanted more than I was worth... Hmm, I think you have a lot of questions, haven’t you?” I’m not even talking, but she keeps responding to each of my chain of thoughts. Please, tell me what happened, why are some sort of tattoos all over your body? “Oh, I don’t need to… you are just a part of something bigger.” I know… I forgot – like – everything **you** made. I need to go back. “Go where? As you can clearly see, you found your way here.” This location. A hospital? No… never behind bars. A big shadow of a grid drops on the Maxine in front of me. Red veins in her eyes. Dark bloodshot eyes with thick circles underneath each, not cute… just… creepy and dreadful. “Thanks, you are looking good, likewise.” It can’t be. The calendar on the wall reads 2015. I jumped two years forward? Never ever. “If I tell you – that I wanted to finish listening to the song of Muse – will you believe me?” No, you nasty little liar! You would’ve listened to “Helpless Like You” ... “I was talking about the moment, you were committed to this mental institution, busted Einsteinhead.” This can’t be… this Max in front of me knows a fricking lot! “Will you now shut your mouth and listen? … Fine, you create the impression that you’ve missed everything. That makes you saner and even more predictable. As soon as you’re not sitting… _there_ , anymore, you’ll understand.” My heart races a billion miles per hour. So does hers… Her tunic leaps. Up and down, and up… The vision smears with a fast blur.

\--------

I hear a chime, at the same time, I blackout entirely.

\--------

“I wake up in…” the other Max’s head… In front of me, a shrink. I get it. Everything… holy crap! My head is more likely ready to explode. Shit… I perceive her memory… the phone call, the warning… the party… the bullying and now I’m back with _my_ memory. I don’t understand. Fuck! Everything’s weighting me down. I feel the past winning the race. It surpasses me. My head falls down on the table to a disgusting beep in my ear that instantly leaves. All this detail… so heavy. So damn brutal. I heave my head and look at the dude in front of me. A psych, I presume.

He writes all the things down, he sees with his sole view. He shakes his head, throws the spectacles from his nose down to the table. After that, his scratchpad follows as it is slipping out of his hands. Cringing with his face, he takes a long breather. Heaving a sigh, “Miss Caulfield… do you remember that… every time, we meet each other…” – “It is just another suspension of disbelief? Yes, I do remember,” I interrupt his question by instinct. Predictable, his answer really was. “I’m glad you _do_ remember Coleridge’s theory,” we are both recipients, who can’t share their own language. He tiredly looks at me through his small eyes. Thinking about it, eyes being the mirror – the key – to one’s soul, gives me the creeps when I look into his eyes. I think about the other patient, he was dealing with – terror indeed. The mirror to his soul is a big maze, I don’t want to enter.

I don’t know why I beached in this funhouse. “Can I…” – “Read your diary from two thousand thirteen? Sure, Miss Caulfield. Time’s over now, anyway.” wherever I was sticking, it definitely _was_ a horrible timeline albeit 2015 must be the only true figure. I had no look into my diary in 2013, I notice. Gosh, I’d never forget it in the future. I’m glad to be back here, where I can get back the answers I need. The psyche – whose name I can’t remember – stands up and leaves the table, grabs his stuff with a fast swipe. I glance out of the window. How long have I been here? “Miss Caulfield, if you are not feeling better in the next ten minutes, I’d ask you to take twice the dose of quetiapine.” The doc leaves my room. The door stays open. I see a lot of other ill people. I am another hollow identity in this asylum. First and foremost, start with the diary! 3:50pm? Great, I could listen to Amon Tobin’s song, again. Well this time, I’ll make use of a lot more answers… and they might hurt.

I raise my hand… tighten it to a fist and concentrate. Nothing happens. I try to rewind and… ugh!

The doc iterates his fast grab after his stuff and says, “Miss Caulfield, if you are not feeling better in the next ten minutes, I’d ask you to take twice the dose of quetiapine.” I’m back in the old game. Well, the so-called _normal_ life inside of my future head. The rewind-powers are back, too. Great… My head doesn’t ache. I could get used to this. I look on the bottom to see my white tunic. But wait, there is something written on my arm.

“Chloe can die in fragment.” Her phantom imprint… I can still feel it… What the fuck? She knew? That Max has known everything that I was doing? And now I am inside of _her_ head? That super sarcastic Max in front of me was mean, strange and alienated. I’m not feeling her thoughts nor her memory, however, I feel the strong medication and hence the strong motor deficit. Gross, I guess, I’ll understand more about this later. I’m getting nervous. I want to know so much more about her!

I fall to the ground with despair, a male nurse rushes into my room, since he has seen my emotional meltdown. A big harmless guy. “Max my little doe… y’wanna tell me another story from Seattle?” a cheerful voice. Good, I could really use an ounce of solace. His tender grasp of his arms around my belly calms me slightly. It helps. His name is Michael. Always cute, always soft… the world could need more of those guys, and don’t ask me why I know _his_ name and not the doc’s. Perhaps I’m only remembering the good people. Cute and a tad gullible at the same time. I’m sure he’s just pretending.

As we start to talk about random stuff, I see other parts of my body. I wrote everywhere. Some text almost faded… some text has remained fresh. This is so much Memento, though Leonard’s amnesia compared with mine… galaxies! I think I’ll read the notes on my body and my old diary to find out the rest, as soon as Michael leaves my… cage. I’ve got the unpleasant feeling, that the other Max here started something huge, that I must end in some way. A new opportunity? A new chance arising inside of a closed hospital? A plan that works in 2015 for events of 2013 and even further?

Michael has held my hands throughout our conversation. They are warm, like his heart. His smile could calm down any aggressive person. Although, I don’t know him, yet. I think the Max before me knew a lot more about this place. Now he’s leaving. Let’s grab the music player and finish Muse’s song, to all my notes plus diary. A song I had never finished, two years ago. Better late than never!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decisions made by Max (their importance/weight is kept secret):
> 
> -She unwound in Kate's room for an hour -> Kate fondly took care of her  
> -She dragged Alyssa away from the cork board to avoid her being hit by toilet paper again  
> -She ignored the message on her phone at 5:45pm  
> -During the interrogation the malicious police officer distrusted Max because she answered unknowingly incautiously  
> -She reacted indifferent, when Warren sided with her while the argument with the mean police officer  
> -She neither reacted to David nor Jefferson's comments  
> -She chose to meet Jefferson  
> -She decided to use her pulse powers to escape Jefferson but failed gravely  
> -She failed to answer the paramedic's questions about the date and her memory about the day before  
> -She tried to talk to David but he distrusted her -> Thus she didn't find out about Chloe's whereabouts or mental health  
> -She chose to pulse back into the dark room – in a hope to fix her wrong answers – which lead to an even worse mental condition -> The consequence being that one policeman immediately helped her out and took fatherly care of her -> The policeman revealed his name  
> -She distrusted her other self in 2015
> 
>  
> 
> “Memorize Max” (Events or occurrences everybody took note of, including Max):
> 
> -Dana spotted Max drooling and may likely use this occurrence in a later talk  
> -Max saw bloody footprints on the hallway and will remember her thoughts to that  
> -The police officer interrogating Max distrusted her because she didn’t answer his questions cautiously  
> -Max bumped into David inadvertently however, he reacted furiously and hence threatened her  
> -In the empty classroom, Max contemplated the class photo and pondered about frozen time and their truth


	4. Hope Is Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The asylum is no place to stay. Without even trying to escape, Max gets automatically reset back to the solidified timeline. She makes her next step to win back the trust of her beloved Chloe. But something interrupts the system.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (July 2017) Most recent updates:  
> -a ton of linguistical improvements  
> -removing plenty disjointed sentences  
> -changed or removed wrong idioms  
> -improved readability by shortening of way too long sentences  
> -Max's thoughts are less erratic and not as senseless and stupid  
> -small details have been added (those trivial details are connected with those of chapter 02)  
> -a lot of sentences have been removed since they don't make any sense or are just bloat  
> -removed plenty abbreviations in Max's chain of thoughts  
> -colloquial language has been revised in dialogues and Max's own thoughts  
> -punctuation improved (e.g. if somebody interrupts another person)  
> -corrected grammar  
> -entire polish (this chapter was by far the weakest since I started this work. Now it should be a lot better)

**Chapter 04 – Hope is Death**  
_(Updated July 19 th till 28th 2017)_  
Theme Song: Phaeleh – Fallen Light

I hate to say this but, “What a bitch of a day!” Is it even suitable to call this process… day? I’m awake since… when was I? Wandering from a storm to the other storm and then back into a strange reality, where Nathan shatters his head and I am Blackwell’s first obvious missing victim. Abducted by Jefferson. And after all that shit I finally pass out to find myself two years later inside an asylum. One positive thing is important to mention, though. I’m not so fucking bony in 2015. I must have gained at least twenty pounds. Great, my butt has some shape, at long last…

This day feels as if my brain is in a constant spin for over 48 hours nonstop. Hope the sub-consciousness will be capable to render everything in my sleep. It really needs to catch up. Oh, I remind me of my thirst back at Blackwell. I wanted to get me a can of soda, there. So, here I’ll get me a tasty hibiscus tea instead, although I’m not feeling the two-year old thirst anymore. My throat ain’t parched as well. Due to my fuck-time-travel-powers I’m losing confidence in my daily needs successively step by step. Anyways, this place isn’t too horrible. It definitely isn’t the cliché asylum either. It’s a closed institution for medical treatment of complex mental diseases. Everybody in here has a comprehensible reason to stay and get medicine. I guess, I’m deep into depressions. And again, I’m kinda glad for the confusing amnesia, so that I can’t remember literally every detail. My real brain has to be a pure mess right now. But that doesn’t change my determination. I want to read everything that my other-self had written down in my old diary. What had she had on her mind?

At any rate, the scribble-notes on my body are damn interesting. I go into my bathroom. A small room built into my Maximus-chamber of derangement. A giant mirror with a sink and a small sideboard. A loose tile on the wall bears little space to deposit stuff. Ah I remember. The movie “Amelie”, it had something similar to it. Behind me, there’s a roll-in shower with white semi-transparent cloth. If there were no bars behind the window, this could also be a mundane hospital. Exhilarating to watch myself inside a smooth spotless mirror with no cracks. It’s me, “Hey.” Look at those eyes, look at the rest of my body. Whoa! I’ve never been doing worse… I grab my toothbrush, walk outside on the floor, crowded with some nurses and other patients. One old man in a wheelchair startles, as he sees me leaving my sickroom.

I raise my hand to rewind. I sense everything in a backwards motion. No humming of whales nor anything else. It’s not a pulse either. Sheer rewinding and that’s it. Period!

I stop the rewind. Michael has just left my room, and the old guy in the wheelchair sits with his back to me. The toothbrush has remained unharmed in my other hand. My rewind-powers are reliable, so to speak, even after all the horrors from 2013. If I ever had owned a gift _for a reason_ , I would have used it until its purpose absconds. Speaking of which, I don’t want to know, how many patients have tried to get rid of their mental problems. This is not a place for repentance. This is a place of replenishing mental sanity. Some will find their way out of their demise, some will never finish their endless cycle of… cut it out Max! Michael walks past me and pets my shoulder smirking like an angel. A big angel. I hope there’s no deeper meaning to that smirk. I could listen to Don’t Stay Here, again because that’s what I’m planning to do. Finding my way out of this building. Solving puzzles and events on the layer of time, that I’ve just left. I suppose, that everything I do, will affect my current… state, my current present Me.

I go back inside of my room and enter the bathroom. Goodbye for now Mister Toothbrush. You helped me with an important quest: Finding out, if I was still capable to meddle with my biggest foe. Time.

After my adventure with Mister Toothbrush I reenter my room. Everything’s so white and bright. It almost reminds me of Kate’s light spilled room albeit I had a bad headache there. Here, it’s all going to be okay. No nosebleeds, either. On a little nightstand, I grab my ancient diary. Whew, some good ol’ feelings, that need to be polished, I guess. While holding the heavy book, I notice all the penmanship on my skin. Well, let’s read those first.

\- friendship --------  
\- ---- jinxed accident  
-Joyce ----  
-Warn ---- party  
-Tell Da---- about ----  
\- ---- Polaroid  
-Break cycle  
-Chloe will die inside fragment

Well that’s… uncanny. I don’t understand these notes, and most of them have faded entirely. Are they intended to be read by someone? For the Amnesia-Max? Or who else I might be? “Chloe can die in fragment” hum, what does she… _me…_ mean by that? I grab my music player and choose the song by Muse. Okay, let’s read Max, shall we?

“July 10, 2013  
I GOT ACCEPTED INTO BLACKWELL ACADEMY.

If words could dance, this would be a rave. Even though I’ve never been to one… But who cares because I GOT INTO BLACKWELL ACADEMY! […]”

So far so whacky. Everything I wrote seems to be… unchanged. I skim the pages, but so far, it’s all the well-known fluff. But wait. I’ve almost skipped an important spot.

“August 18, 2013  
So this is it. I’m leaving Seattle to go back to Arcadia Bay. Usually people go to the High School closest to home. I suppose I am too, it’s just I haven’t lived there for five years. Out of all the best photography programs in the world, I choose to go to the smallest, back in a town I was excited about leaving.

On the flipside of the coin there is still this thing between Chloe and me. I know I fucked up in her life, like nobody else could. I’m not regretting anything, anymore, since I’ve changed a lot. I hope she’ll continue the game with me someday. Being pirates again, on our never-ending search for treasure. I’ll miss my parents. Now I’m sorta grown-up, aren’t I?

Now it’s time to get back to Arcadia Bay. Time for total redemption. To study photography under Mark Jefferson […]”

I’m getting sick already! How the? This is cryptic… August the 25th is yet the same. The way of writing changed inherently terribly. I’m like three times more depressed, Muse’s song perfectly fits all over again. I can feel this…

“[…] Nobody will know me there, even Chloe knows how to leave me at bay. Hopefully Jefferson will be a kind teacher. […]”

This is driving me crazy. I had written all sentences as if I knew what’s standing ahead. Actually, it is obvious to me. I mean everybody could’ve written the same way how I wrote this diary but I understand this in a different way.

“[…] I just want things to be… different at Blackwell.”

Story of my life… Well, September second is an entire new story.

“September second, 2013, 08:00 am

My first entry from my new dorm room the night before my first day at Blackwell. Whew! I cramped out all my stuff, threw it in my wardrobe at random and captured a fucking lot of selfies. When- and wherever I could. Even with other people near me. I plan a whole wall o’ photos… they will show everything that’s inside of me. My only truth. I did meet a lot of my dorm mates, though I creeped the fuck out of them, because I knew their names in an instant. I’m a fast learner I mean… It’s a bitch trying to get settled into a new school and social scene after I finally found good friends in Seattle. The inception of my studies is a mess.”

I can’t describe my emotions about the next page. Christ!

“September third, 2013

Ankle-deep inside Blackwell’s shit! I couldn’t sleep at all. I can hear their laughter echoing in my head. And don’t get me started with that slut Victoria. Rich, stylish, entitled, ass kissing our photography teacher. Her mere look at me told enough. Yeah, good word: Enough! This instant judgement of hers made almost all of them thinking the same way. I can’t find healthy sleep at night… insomnia.

So that wasn’t fun along with my general social unease… Anyhow, it develops as expected… Max shows her weirdo face right at the beginning. Nevertheless, I love Blackwell’s architecture. Pretty ancient and so beautiful. I could get used to its presence without those despicable students. Hopefully, Mister Jefferson’s photography class ain’t too egocentric, as most artist become sooner or later.

I have to keep my eyes peeled. Something’s very foul.”

Reading my old diary is like an utter diverging feeling. On one hand, nostalgic on the other completely wrong. I hadn’t been able to know everything up from the beginning, had I? The next entry is strange.

“September fourth, 2013

Once I thought Victoria was just the beginning, what about that Prescott boy? I see him decking Warren, that poor benign dude. Warren’s a cool guy, but I was too gutless to defend him. That Asian girl Brooke took care of it. Yet, he came to visit me afterwards. A dark and witty guy, maybe I’ll try to talk to him in the next days. He deserves better than being thrashed in everybody’s presence.

At least I get to research famous photographers for some of my homework. Mr. Jefferson assigned us a fricking ton of reading, but hey, this is exactly what I want to do. Do it all on my own. Jefferson is supercreepy and all his statements are ambiguous. He even ignores me, when Victoria and those two other girls start with their ‘fun’… Thanks a lot for nothing!”

Are my entries all deliberately written that obvious way? Gosh, it’s so fucking suspicious. And one word always shimmers, once I read it. My mind is playing its tricks again. Thanks anyway. September the fifteenth let’s give that one a whirl… and is exceptionally strange…

“September fifteenth

Homework destroys me. I bet, the teachers grade harder to stop you from feeling somewhat special. Victoria Chase and her snobbish gals are exceptions. They feel like queens (=bitches). Just like that awesome song by Bowie… Sigh, I could use some music right now. Kate is the only kind girl around. Warren sometimes looks inside my creep-ass dorm room, whether everything’s fine. Apparently not! Victoria already had some great ideas about giving me a nickname: Zoombie-Max. That’s big of you, you slut! You see what she made there? Not funny… Though it’s creative to treat me like an ugly witch.

And about Nathan… I’ll pass on that one. Won’t say anything about that psycho. […]”

Again, the text jiggles and shimmers. Maybe I shouldn’t read the entire entry. 20pm already? Haha, I totally lost feeling and perception about time. Should I rewind to read the entire diary in one big sitting? Really odd that I did not mention anything else about Nathan in there. I presume that I dropped an entire line for him. Yeah, I don’t oblige him. Whatever… let’s get going. The next entry was September the thirtieth:

“September thirtieth, 2013

This is enough bullshit. Victoria is the worst. Fuck this planet, fuck this eerie photography teacher and this smart ass paranoid surveillance-addicted security guard Madsen. Yeah, sure thing he’s _mad_. Following me, taking photos of me. You’d think it is easy to avoid such creeps? Being 18 does NOT make you harder or better than the rest. And most importantly, not grown-up. 18 is a – not telling you anything – figure which represents your age, period. I’m happy, as long as I can escape him and run back into my dorm room and lean the mattress against the door. My room is akin to a sinister sanctuary. And if I was exaggeratedly precise, Kate’s room would be the opposite. The magnanimous haven of sanity. A sacrament… It’s good to water on her shoulder every-fucking time, Victoria and her crew riles me up. Talking about crew, I’m not lying when I tell you that it surely is getting bigger and bigger. More and more adherents joined to support bullying the Zombie-Max. Guess they need a Facebook page just for that reasonable purpose.

Talking more about the academy: Ms. Grant is terrific. A superb teacher, to be honest. Even a thick bonehead like me understands those physics stuff. I could try to involve myself more into her class. But with a mouth wired shut it’s fairly easy to survive the day at Blackwell. I’m the well-known slacker who doesn’t speak. Back to Ms. Grant, she’s a good listener. Compassionate and good-natured. Jefferson could need some of her traits, for sure! Yuck, I wish it would be possible to avoid his classes. But hey, I can’t keep this up. Maybe this is again all just my fucking fault. Just think about Chloe and what you’ve done to her.”

Now that’s a big one. Whew! My thoughts are a big mess. I think I’ll read more, tomorrow. Hopefully, this isn’t a big mistake. But wait, the entry of October first is interesting. The song by Muse is about to end.

“October first

this is obnoxious. You could use a shrink. He will take care of you. Fade away in there. This diary is senseless. Stop to read or parents vanish!?"

All letters on that page flicker, jiggle and are visually corrupted. No exact date… Where the hell is my mind? Well, I see… I cut out something and glued it on top of the letters. _Those_ elements are shaking highhandedly. Blocky artifacts appear on top the self-written words. The ink beneath those fragments is not what’s causing these flickering. Sigh, the next enigma along with the amnesia. Ugh, this is stressful. 22pm? What? That’s impossible! I listened to one song and lost track… shit nap time… if I find some sleep, that’ll be great. No more sunlight spills my sickroom. I walk to the window. Hah, the moon has no clone. Good old memory. Double moon… yeah and other creepy shit, that nobody needs in their life. My life equals a loop.

I walk back to my bed. I’ll find some rest. As I’m closing my eyes, I notice a thunder of a storm. Definitely not a dream, I reckon. A dream within a dream must have ended, I think.

* * *

 

Where am I? Not this bullshit again? I wake up on a muddy pathway inside of the wild storm, all over again. I must get up on my feet. I’m trapped in here just like every time I lose conrol… There’s the lighthouse… Okay, I’ll be safe up there, if I can make it… I really hope… That boat must hit me, so that I’ll reawake somewhere else. The rain hurts my eyes like stitching needles. The storm whips trash and dirt around. Okay, this is still creepy. Fresh stains of blood in the mud flowing down the pathway. The trail of blood made its way downhill. A swarm of sand particles carries a photograph. I catch that image, but the wind is too strong, it slips out of my hands within a fraction of a second. A boat bursts into the lighthouse and… holy shit! Whoa! I black out. I’m feeling nothing, but...

\--------

The sound of a bell rings…

\--------

I startle, and wake up in Jefferson’s photography class. That was so… unexpected. I’ll have a quick look around. Everything seems to be nor… disturbed and fucked up as it has always been. Yeah, I’m back into the world of madness. I hear Mr. Jefferson rambling. What? Back here again? It started a cycle, a new lap on a race? I can’t… Kate is still serene and blatantly sound… Am I back on the shitty timeline? My heart slams wildly in my thorax, thumping against my ribs. Dammit, Jefferson’s silly questions that everyone has to know on demand. Hitchcock would leave his tomb just to make your face shut. Jefferson rambles and jabbers and can’t stop his selfish crap. He turns around facing with his back to us and keeps talking. Taylor uses the situation and throws the balled-up paper at me. I fend it with my left hand and show them the middle finger. No need to frown at them or to give them a look.

“Zombie-Max is go…” – “Fuck you!” I interrupt her lame comment without looking at her face. “Kids, please! Go do your childish stuff somewhere else! I’m not here to lecture you, go solve your problems somewhere else!” Jefferson grumps, during the ringing of the school bell. No, I don’t need to be here. Don’t stay here Max…

I clench my fist. I try to change my position immediately to the parking lot and go backwards in time. The sound of the bell tolls again. Humming of whales… shit my neck.

The school bell’s not ringing. I’m on the parking lot. I fall to my knees coughing with pain in my lungs and around my neck. Nathan waits there impatiently. He didn’t realize my coughing. I don’t understand why, but nonetheless I can keep my hiding spot. Nathan is nervous… obviously. I get back on my feet… damn I’m tired of this. Chloe arrives with her truck on the parking lot. Nathan paces back and forth but confronts Chloe after she pulled the handbrake. What is this going to become? I try listening to them. Chloe leaves the truck slowly and a bit frightened. Color me impressed… literally every single hair on her head is dyed red. She’ll always look hot as hell. The sunlight burns her head and intensifies the red saturation. The color seems to create a vapor or is it just the steam arising from the pavement? She approaches Nathan anxiously.

She starts off though “You know this will get you in shitload of tro--” – “Where’s Frank!” Nathan yells at her. “ **Hear me out**! First _you_ tell me, what you tried with me, after you _fuck--!_ ” – “No you disgraceful slut. You are on **my** property. **MY** fucking rules!” Nathan grabs her neck and pushes her against the door of her truck. He points with his forefinger in her face. Almost digging it in her eye. “ _You…_ you will tell me where the **fuck** Frank is, **now**! You know what I’m capable of?” – “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about. He’s not in that business anymore. Frank is out of that business…” Nathan releases Chloe out of his grip. She slides down the door to the hard ground and coughs a few times. She softly feels around her gorge with her fingers and snorts briefly. Nathan’s fist loads with anger. Oh, please keep calm! The anger literally boils through his chest and… he slaps her… ouch, that hurt. Even in my ears. I can still remember the sound. “Go to hell!” she quietly whimpers and tries to get up with her legs shaking. Now she grabs a cigarette out of her pocket and starts to smoke. Nathan has turned around and left.

Perhaps, a new chance for me… on my shaky legs… I leave my hiding position and sneak through the other parked cars. Chloe realizes my approach as I start talking to her, “What if I told you that Nathan will shoot himself in the next sixty seconds, would you give me a ride?” – “Who the fuck are you?” dammit, she’s upset. I approach her, “Please Chloe, I know you lost…” her throat. This bowls me over. She went through the same torture in the dark room? It can’t be. “Get the fuck away you sicko!” she tries to keep me away with her left hand. Those words hit me hard. I know there must be good reasons for her reaction. I can’t let her go. I face her again but she shows intentional refusal. She raises the hand to nonverbally tell ‘no’ again… I grab after her wrist, clench my fist and hope, she’ll understand.

I pulse us into the future. Right to Nathan’s room… The sounds are still the same. Bell, whales and a muffled scrunch through my body. My throat burns.

Nathan is there already but hasn’t noticed us, albeit Chloe and I have pulsed us inside of his room. “Hell, this can’t be real!” Chloe screams. And still, without noticing us, Nathan pulls the trigger. Chloe yells with fear, her head rubs against my shoulder while she tries to find some cover behind me. I’m not getting used to this – watch somebody shooting himself – crap. Chloe shivers, “Not _here_ again!” her face is covered in his blood on the right side of her face. Those eyes, I could just give her a kiss. But, that would just creep the fuck out of her, even more. Still coughing, I touch her right cheek, while clenching my other fist. I know it’ll hurt a lot more than normal.

I pulse us backwards in time. The choke drives me unconscious…

Chloe and I have been repositioned to the truck. I release her cheek. I blindly try to grab her arm and I fetched something. She tugs her arm out of my grasp, nudges me away and gets back inside the truck. While getting in her car she whimpers, “Don’t you _ever_ do that again.” – “I’m Ma…,” I can’t finish my sentence because my brain has totally given it up. Everything is dark, only my ears seem to work. I cough in pain while she shifts into the first gear. But she stays… it confuses me to think about the occurrence with Evan. When I had pulsed us back, he was replaced to the bench, where he has sitting the entire time. I also wiped his memory… like… every bit of it. But Chloe must feel and see something. Finally, I can see again.

I crawl to her truck and try not to annoy her even more. She looks so sad. The truck’s engine keeps running but Chloe is not leaving. She doesn’t look super mad… she’s… blue – no pun intended, though. She stares to the ground and changes her view towards me. I’m the stupid idiot, who’s trying to get back on their feet. “Get in…,” she says. That means she remembers my request to get in for a ride. I broke something? I stagger around her truck and make my way in. Oh, man that good ol’ scent in her truck. “Who are you?” – “Max… Caulfield,” I cough. Nathan’s shot echoes through campus to us. Birds leave the treetops in little swarms. Contorted with pain Chloe turns away from me covers her face with both her hands. She leans out of the window quite a bit. I see her shoulder, the tattoos, the red hair… I can’t brace myself. Can’t think straight… I just pet her shoulder. Show your compassionate Max, as good as you can. Her skin feels beautiful, so soft. She denies my touch and wiggles with her shoulder. Fuck, this is more fucked up than I thought.

“I knew this would happen someday…,” she tries to say it rather composed, but I know that Chloe will tell me more about everything. At least, it’s what I hope for. In her truck, she turns the music on, “I need something to relax.” So, “Paradise Circus by Massive Attack” is relaxing to you? I mean it is definitely more depressing to me, by any means. Man, its emotional impact shocks me. This song is heavy. Chloe has also shut her mouth…

Driving on a highway through woods and ditches. Oh, we drove past the junk yard. I’m blinded… the sun always shines inside the truck. Chloe drops a large shadow on me. Sunbeams burn across her already red burning hair. The rolling by landscape behind her, the hair flying in all directions because her car windows is pulled down. It makes me feel serene again. She’ll always be my beautiful angel. She’ll never know nor find out… I hope I can still change things. The song on her radio reaches two spots that give me the rest.

“Love is like a sin, my love,  
For the ones that feel it the most”

Great, that totally kills me. Fuck my sore throat, fuck this timeline, fuck all of it, I’ve never shed so many tears, ever since… oh well and **fuck** this amnesia, too. I’m becoming deaf, tears leave my eyes constantly, the song sustains its clarity. Huddling on the seat, I water and cry out my eyes until they become dry. In deep hope for some salvation. And why isn’t there anybody to comfort me? Chloe! You are right next to me. Chloe pulls up, and my head bangs against the glovebox. Ouch, my cortex really needs this, too. Right after a mental enema treatment. Who cares? All you find inside my head is hot air and poop.

We are deep in the woods. Reminds me of the location of that old barn. Yeesh, a place I don’t really want to go back to. The song has ended, a mellow noise remains and the next track will follow. My eyes still water a little. It’s lessening at least. Gosh I forgot how fricking weak I am on this brutal layer of time.

The light in Chloe’s car is amazing. I wish I had my camera with me. I see Chloe in the left angle of my field of view. A reload sound clicks. I glance to my left. The sunlight behind her shines on my face. The backlight makes her shape look like a dark silhouette. The left side of her face, burnt by daylight. David’s gun in her hands points at my face. Now Max, this is how deep you’ve fallen down. The beautiful world surrounds you while everything else decays and rots. Now, you are next! At gunpoint.

Chloe sways a lot. If she’d pulled, she more likely wouldn’t have hit me. The rod approaches me… To be really honest… I’m scared shitless by this. But I can understand why she’s doing this, for no real reason. Though I know nothing about her life, it is also nice to die in her vicinity. I’m neither aware of _anything_ about her life in this dimension nor mine. And still, I cannot remember anything about my own past, either. I had the possibility to read the diary further, but time had to run out. I haven’t slept… and haven’t found enough answers. I’m the failure in the system.

“I was warned… about your _arrival_!” she says nervously. She grinds with her teeth and isn’t afraid to show her anger driven by her despair, “Now I’ve seen enough. If you are a fucking witch, you’ll prevent me from pulling the trigger, won’t you?” Chloe threatens me. I’ll shut my eyes. Hope she really finishes it here, although I know that-- oh God, the gun really **has** fired a shot. She has hit my arm… I sense the blood leaving my left underarm. The pounding of my heart hits inside of my injured body part. Slowly I realize the pain increasingly growing in my hand, arm, shoulder, head. By not moving a single muscle, I draw a load of breath and open my eyes. The revolver falls out of her hands, “Gee, I didn’t want to…,” Chloe covers her mouth with one hand. She tries to excuse but I interrupt her while touching her right shaky hand, “None taken…”

I clench my other fist and pulse back for a short period of time. I try to focus and keep my position. However, the choke is pretty bad. The bell and whales are becoming neglectable…

Chloe almost finishes her sentence, “…prevent me from pul--” my heart races against my ribs. I must say something, “Please, don’t shoot my arm… I know...” her carotid pounds. I hear the revolver dropping. I look at her to my left. I think I can hear her heartbeat. Cute, despite the fact that she has shot me in an alternate reality. She’s frightened and disturbed at the same time. “Get _out_!” she orders me desperately. I think she’s trying to play tough once again. But actually, she seems devastated. I see the red outline of a rope around her neck. Story of my life. “I said get the _hell_ out!” she opens the door herself and nudges me out while almost beginning to cry. The spinning tires squirt dirt into my face. “CHLOE!?” I scream after her, wiping some dirt out of my face. Don’t even try Max, you must do something else… I hope, I’ll find my way back to Blackwell. My phone vibrates. My mother, again…

“Hi honey Your principal sent me an email saying that he is concerned about your attitude and behavior that you are not fitting in well and hiding in your dorm I know it’s hard to be away from home even if you are all grown-up now. But you are there to change the world with your camera please call me soon to chat we miss you! Xxoo mommy”

Let’s eh, find the way out of the woods. So where to go first… blackout.

\--------

The ugly chime of a bell tolls and echoes inside my head. I change the location immediately while blacking out.

\--------

Where am I? My head aches terribly. A knocking on my doorstep becomes louder. My brain can’t handle the pain. I can hear my blood dripping on my first selfie from Jefferson’s lesson beneath my nose. Now, it’s covered in blood all over again. And I can’t stop it. A déjà-vu in some place that feels a stranger. My stereo plays Yung Sherman and Lil Sad – Hide Forever. Great, the same song that perfectly blends with my fuck-where-am-I-situation. I’m blind, can’t open my lids… someone comes closer to me from my back.

“Hi, Max… Max, listen to me. Always remember that you’re not alone. I’ve got your back, no matter what happens. God will guide us, and a lot of other people, too. We all care, we’re all here for you. You need to know that.”

I can see again... I’ve been ported back to my chair in front of my desk? Kate leans forward to look into my eyes. She’s on the left side of my desk hoping for an answer. On her left, the impaled Teddy and trampled Lisa. I turn my head to look at her. Kate’s mouth opens. Apparently, she is intrigued by my fucked-up visage. No stains of blood on her shoulder, since I haven’t embraced her.

“Christ, Max. Hopefully, I’m not too late,” she wonders. _Hope_ … sigh. I brainstormed about hoping positive stuff enough, for today. “I actually came here to tell you that Mr. Jefferson asked, to talk to you again at 6pm, since you slept through his entire course, today,” she adds. “Only God knows why those gals treat you like the devil. I’d also look like you, if I was in your situation!” Kate adds almost sad. This day is yet strange again. “After all, the new student from abroad seems to be a sensible person,” she continues. “Who is it?” are my first words to her. “You’ve got something on your shoulder…,” Kate picks a red little hair… obviously, Chloe left a little mark. And I thought, I was captured inside an endless cycle of death. Another oddity: she’s not mentioning Nathan’s death. Ah I remember, she prayed for that schmuck and ‘forgive and forget’, right? Hope and pray for his salvation. Amen!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decisions made by Max (their importance/weight is kept secret):
> 
> -She examined her diary entries from 2013  
> -She determined to go sleeping instead of investigating her diary any further  
> -She talked to Chloe and tried to convince Chloe to trust her by moving with her through time and space  
> -She traumatized Chloe by moving her into Nathan's room where he subsequently committed suicide  
> -She didn't flee when Chloe was threatening her with a gun  
> -She forgave Chloe for pulling the trigger and rewound time by pulsing
> 
>  
> 
> “Memorize Max” (Events or occurrences everybody took note of, including Max):
> 
> -Max noticed that she ruined her polaroid all over again after surpassing some sort of time checkpoint  
> -A giant stain of blood remained on Chloe’s seat after shooting Max


	5. Braking the rivets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chloe had been warned and made a mistake. High hopes for Max, since somehow she worked it out to make a change on the seemingly riveted layer. A change with another character. She has to find out more about herself in the Two Whales Diner. The strange student from abroad gives rise to more questions. Instead of asking herself more and more, she needs to take action.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (July 2017) Most recent updates:  
> -the age of one non-given (not in the original plot from LiS) character has been dropped significantly (four years)  
> -entire revise of this chapter  
> -overall polish of almost every dialogue  
> -colloquial language adjusted  
> -Max doesn't use as much (I assume - I guess - I think) and other parenthesis constructions - so they've been shortened or removed  
> -some grammar constructions were wrong and have been removed or corrected  
> -few details have been added  
> -one logical error has been corrected  
> -refine of this rather short chapter  
> -small enhancements have been resolved to do (improved interconnection to the 'work in progress' chapter 09)

**Chapter 05 – Breaking the rivets**  
_(Updated July 30 th 2017) **  
**_ **Theme Song: Bonobo – Kota**

It was a box filled with letters. I didn’t break her snow doe, because the box was so big and there were hundreds of letters deposited in it. She had had to move it all away to make some room for the box. It’s odd to see them. No wonder why David wanted to be called ‘Mister Madsen’ back in the ambulance. Best of all: Sir Mister Madsen Sir. Such a messy déjà-vu. What a fucking surprise. I’ll fall back sooner or later.

Where was I? Never mind, it’s just the Caulfield’s-Mind playing its stupid tricks. I see Kate holding the red strand of Chloe’s hair. Kate starts off giggling, “Who hugged you first?” Grinning at me, she flips off the hair with her fingers and starts again, “Hey Max, I’ll help you pinning all your photos back on the wall, okay?” – “No thanks, I’ll be at the Two Whales Diner, if you search for me.” I leave Kate alone in my Maximus-Abyss. She won’t burst into pleasure because I’m not smiling or anything else what she did in my first Monday’s walkthrough. Such a pity.

Whatever has happened then, it’s a special sign. I was teleported back to my chair and dripped my blood on a selfie. And now, it is the same old story. Teleported back to my desk with Kate telling me the same stuff again. I’m riveted here, trapped and lost. If I’m not breaking anything, this Monday will loop and is going to be played back continuously. I need to find out more about Chloe. She seems not to be a riveted victim of this timeline. Evan is afflicted and maybe everybody else. There must be a system behind this. I can’t stay here at Blackwell. Kate wants to help me with my photos, Warren wants to show me disgraceful photos on the social web. Two policemen like to question me, since all the members of the Prescott family obviously own the Arcadia Hell’s small police department. I know one place here where I can go to be all by myself. The Two Whales Diner. I will recall everything that I’ve encountered and write it down into my diary. Hopefully it’ll stay in there for 2015.

Kate stays in my room. Without shutting the door, I walk down the floor when Victoria passes me and walks to my dorm room. The shutter of her camera clicks. “The nun taking care of the selfie. Aw… cute,” she says. What? I turn around and see her doing the same as before… well whatever ‘before’ means, now. I’m not inside of that room but she behaves, as if I’m still in there. Victoria jitters like an unstable TV-Screen and fades away with a mellow flash. My brain is king with those visual effects. Whoa, I’ll need more drugs I guess, when I’m back at the psychiatry…

Half past five. Enough time to do some stuff. The ambulance arrives, students are confused and disturbed. I’ll never get used to this crap. Hey, I forgot to drink something here. My sore throat could need some fresh soda. Let’s go back inside Blackwell first. After leaving the dorms, I see that so many people begin to chat, cry or do random stuff. Since I am the Zombie-Face, I don’t need to really talk to anybody. All the answers that I need are somewhere around Chloe.

I take the pathway up to the campus again. I’m not running into Madsen this time, but the stranger from abroad. Damn he’s tall. At least six foot. “Oh pardon me…,” he says smirking at me with a darn weird accent. Maybe a French dude. I run away from him. No time to start another awkward conversation with a non-given character. A student from abroad… How? He keeps standing there and follows me with his view while I’m running away. I walk inside Blackwell. Nothing more than a soda is what I want. And if Mr. Wells comes across… he’ll just pass and forgets me...

Inside of Blackwell, there’s nobody. Cool, let’s get some… ice tea. I think it’s a better idea to stay here first and have a look around. What about the Otters, the Bigfoots, the posters? After pulling out the can of… ice tea I walk towards the glass cabinets and investigate them. The next thing that I see boggles my fucking mind. In the glasses reflection, there’s the ancient dagger. I turn around and see that sinister thing stuck on a wall behind a thick layer of glass. The dagger from my creepy dream. To be honest, I don’t know if that was just a dream within a dream or something else. Those adornments, those symbols… behind a glass cabinet. I feel no connection to this eerie thing. Though, I feel the constant growth of anxiety in my chest. I think I’ve already seen those symbols on that blade on the tree stump at the lighthouse… oh my, I can see my tired and sad eyes in that blade’s reflection. Something is really foul. Nevertheless, I must leave this place. What a funny coincidence, Sir Principal Wells blocks my way out of Blackwell instead of two policemen.

“What are you doing here Miss Caulfield? You know what happened! Please go back to the dorms. The incident with Mister Prescott turned Blackwell upside down, today.” – “I’m sorry I was thirsty and…,” I try to explain while noticing, that one police officer enters Blackwell and joins the conversation. “Miss Caulfield, I’d like to talk to you at 6pm, if you won’t mind. There are some serious questions, I need to ask you about the Vortex-Party of last week.” – “I won’t be there Sir Wells…,” I stammer, because I know, that I’m somehow going to end back in the dark room. Gross, just thinking about it makes me feel dizzy. I take another gulp from the can of ice tea. Principal Wells responds a little aggravated, “Miss Caulfield this situation is serious. If you don’t talk to me and Officer…” – “Berry,” the policeman behind him quickly adds. “…Berry we must contact your parents and cancel your attendance of the approaching week. Expulsion to be exact,” Principal Wells finishes his threat.

I don’t need to stay here! I clench my fist and pulse me a bit into the past and out of the academy. Same stuff as always. Strangling on the gorge, humming of whales and acute chime.

Instead of smashing into Brooke’s drone, Madsen or any other possible obstacle, it’s the student from abroad. Dammit, this pulsing-power along with clumsiness is deadly cumulative. He falls to the ground and gets back up, immediately. I’m revolving on the ground without any effort, to get up. “Oh, are you okay? I’m so sorry!” the stranger talks to me. He helps me getting up. In front of me, he seems to be much taller. More than what I’ve expected him to be. He smiles a bit, and turns off his music player, which has been blasting metal music in his ears for, whoever knows how long. The bus on the street has just left the bus stop. Man, I can’t pulse further back. It’s hurting me too much.

“Are you alright?” the stranger asks me kindly. Now I don’t think he comes from France. It’s more likely… I don’t know… “Looks like you’ve just missed the bus?” at least he knows how to speak. Max, you can open your mouth, now. “Yeah, you know the Two Whales Diner?” – “You must be Max, right? Mister Jefferson says nice things about you,” he mentions the schmuck. Thanks for reminding me of that prick again. Yuck, maybe he can help me out. “Yeah I know that diner. Got my apartment somewhere down there. I hired a car for some time. You can come with me, if you want to,” his voice is undefinable. I want to trust him. But if it gets too dangerous, I’ll pulse myself away. “Yes, thanks…” – “I must check some things there anyways,” he says and starts walking to the parking lot. Man, he’s… walking fast. That pace… I don’t want to run. He fetches his car keys and opens a vintage car. That old lady, Warren was owning on the regular timeline. Cool, now the fellow student from abroad owns it. Warren hangs out with Brooke instead. I think, that makes it even.

The stranger starts the engine and shifts into the first gear. As I get in his car, I pull out my mp3 player but the stranger interrupts me. “Hey, I can turn on some music, if you… like,” the melody of his voice becomes more… trustworthy? Yeah, I think so. He smiles at me and turns the music on. I know this track from somewhere. It’s an old one. Gosh, I can’t find its name in the depths of my brain. What’s that song?

“I know this song, but can’t remember its name,” I tell him. “Bonobo…,” he answers smiling at me and looks to me, “…Kota,” he finishes by saying the song’s name. Oh my! The same song is saved on my mp3. Love it!

 A small display shows the tracks on the player. The next track on his playlist would be the band “The Dear Hunter” and I really hope it means “Dear Hunter” not “Deerhunter”. “Where are you from and why are you here in Oregon? I mean, what are you studying?” – “I always wanted to pay the Lost Paradise a visit. I’ll start studying something similar to your subject but I am not sure if I’ll continue it back home,” he answers. Well his English isn’t too shabby. Although, there neither is not slang nor colloquial words used, he really tries to make it as fluent as possible. The velocity of words out of his mouth varies. I can’t tell if he’s Finnish, French, Spanish, Russian… “I’m a Kraut,” he laughs. “Wow, I’ve never spoken to a German dude. How do you like it here?” – “It’s marvelous in Arcadia Bay. Though, nothing seems to be different in terms of social life,” he responds in a sad way. What does he mean?

The stranger skips a couple of songs, although I’ll listen to Kota again in the Diner. Another metal-ish song blasts music in the car. Damn I should really ask for his name. “What do you mean. And how old are you?” I ask him. Silence for a long time. The song he’s playing back on the built-in mp3 player is very dark and sad. After some time, I say to him, “You don’t need to answer, if you…” – “I mean by that, that there is no difference to Germany. Bullying is the same everywhere. How old I am? 18 but this here does not feel like 2013 to me.” Wow, I haven’t expected such an answer. I’m stunned. He’s a thinker. He starts again, “They told me, you are into games and analogue photography. You want to teach me later this week?” – “I think, I can… but not today, unfortunately.” yep, he sure is a sinister dude. He tries to hit on me after two minutes of talking. But it doesn’t mean that he is a threat to me, by all means. But who told him this stuff about me? I thought they all talk bad things about me and they don’t care at all. Except for Kate. Yeah, she mentioned him as the seemingly sensible guy. Hope she proves right.

“I cleaned Daniel’s slate, yesterday. This morning, someone drew the same shit on again. So much drama at Blackwell. No surprise this other guy shoots himself…” oh I definitely forgot about Nathan’s death. Feels weeks old, already. “I hope, the ambulance is not too late… I know plenty friends who could have needed… more luck with the timing,” he reacts to the new sad topic. But I can’t tell him, that Nathan pierced a thick round through his skull and there is no chance at all. Nervously he begins the next sentence, “Excuse me, I’m not the best… person to… cheer somebody up.” – “Never mind, I’ve seen a lot…” this is the only supreme truth, he’ll get from me. 4:45pm, great! Plenty of time to eat something and write down, what has happened. “Anything you want to learn or improve here?” I ask him. I’m interested, what he likes to learn here. “I dunno. Not being a creep and trying to make some friends. I could use some after all the shit that happened in Germany.” he responds in a very sad way. So, he wants to make new friends here. As long as he survives Arcadia Bay, I won’t judge him.

The car approaches the parking next to the Two Whales Diner. The fisherman isn’t there anymore. The RV isn’t parking there, either… What… oh, I forgot. I’m on a fresh, restless timeline of doom. The stranger turns the engine off and kindly asks me, “Hey, can you recommend this diner?” – “Everything they do, is awesome!” I look at him. Man, he really needs more flesh on his body. Why is everybody so skinny, including me? On the right side of his part in the hair, there are red strands. His right eye is a little smaller and he’s wearing glasses. Well, before we left the parking lot at Blackwell, he wasn’t wearing this pair. Caulfield’s-Mind? “I’ll call my parents, it’s nice talking to you!” he throws around with nice words while getting out of the car. This sweet scent. Yay, I’m ready for some tasty waffles. This time, I won’t drool.

That pace! How fast is he on foot? I also wanna be that tall… whoa, my calves would burn at the same speed… he definitely likes hiking or strolling on shore, here. Sigh, I miss the sea, though it’s not so far away. I can hear the noise, the sands rolling to the tides of the sea, the soft wind… Well, no time for an alternate nostalgia. Let’s enter the Two Whales Diner. Everything as always, even Joyce looks the same. Still beautiful. I go to the bathroom and have a look at the mirror. “Fire Walk with me” that’s cute. No daub about Rachel Amber nor any bad words about Kate are to find. Those scribbles were gross, anyway. I think, I should take a picture. I cram out my polaroid camera and bam! Polaroid prints out of the camera. Let’s have a look on the fresh photo… I’m not inside of the reflection? I can see the flash of the camera? What the hell?

I need something to eat because my Caulfield’s-Mind plays its stupid tricks, again. The student from abroad is already on the phone. Dang, his voice is darker in his native language. German sure is the number one melancholic monotone language with harsh pronunciations. I only know the word Kindergarten… yeah, I know that’s cheating. He waves, as he sees me while listening to his parents. He smiles. A little sinister but I think, he’s not a bad guy. He sits, where I spoiled Franks beans. Speaking of which, his RV wasn’t at the parking of Blackwell, neither was it here. Where the hell is he or Rachel? Do they both exist? I take the notorious booth, next to the jukebox. But before going there, let’s change the song. What do we have here? Rory Gallagher… Lonesome Highway. Why not? I keep thinking about me and Chloe driving away from these horrors. Never heard either Gallagher or this specific track of his. Well, it’s a beautiful song, no doubt! Hopefully, no cockroach crawls over the jukebox’s glass because this track is great. Good thing I remember unimportant details. I see the German student moving his head to the rhythm of the song. Tapping with his super long fingers on the table. The trucker at the counter nods with his head.

“Who do we have here?” Joyce smiles at me while dancing her way to the booth where I am sitting. Oh, I could just burst into pleasure to see a nice face again, which doesn’t call me Zombie-Max or abhor me in any other kind. “Hey… Joyce,” I say a bit nervous. “You’d think, I’ll forget your face? Oh… you don’t look so fine my child.” she startles, puts the can of coffee on the table and sits down on the other side of the bench. “It’s good to see you Joyce.” – “Max Caulfield, are you the unknown threat, that made my husband a little paranoid?”

Pardon? This is getting too cryptic. I need answers. I can’t find out things just by asking me more, afterwards. “Dearest Max, Chloe went through a harsh time after you had left Arcadia Bay. I know, that you were not… kind to her, but… that’s not your nature. And as I can see, you have quite a story to tell, haven’t you?” she says while taking a very long breath. I see the TV sticking on the wall. The news doesn’t show the snow… wait a minute. It’s Monday! Max keep track of these details! I really must write down all I know, after I finding my answers together with Joyce.

“Joyce, please tell me everything you know. I’ve forgot like everything. I’ve seen Chloe, today. She’s crazy, her hair is… this is… so wrong.” – “David told me about your behavior at Blackwell. You seem to have problems with a lot of students, at the moment. It surprises me fierce. What have you become Max?” yeah, I could ask this all-day long. If I told her, I awoke in a ginormous storm with multiple dimensions semi-molten, she’d definitely call the ambulance and they’ll **not** arrive too late. Her phone vibrates. “Listen Max, David contacted me, that you disappeared with another student. The academy’s Principal wants to talk to you, he mentions. What’s going on at Blackwell?” – “Write him, ‘I need a break’,” I can say determined. 4:50pm, okay I need to hurry up. I’m afraid, Jefferson will _‘capture’_ me at six o’clock, no matter how far away I am. “You need something to eat Max. You became a skeleton… it’s terrifying.” – “Belgian Waffles?” I ask her while she hurries behind the counter.

The student from abroad comes over to me. “Sorry Max, I must return to Blackwell. Principal Wells wants to talk to me. No idea, why. I thought that a student committing suicide is more important, than a confused Kraut somewhere in Arcadia Bay,” he says to me and continues with, “See you Max.” I finally ask for his name, “What’s you name fellow Kraut?” …in my head it sounded way funnier, to be honest. The guy also flickers and jitters like an old TV-screen. Visual artifacts dissolve him. He has vanished to the sound of windchimes. By far more acceptable then the painful chime, that I’ll hear whenever I pulse around on the timeline. It has looked similar to the vanishing of Victoria in the dorms. I glimpse outside. The sun is far above the ocean. I think, this is a nice moment to turn on some music on my own. The Jukebox blasts some other country music in the meantime. I select “Kota by Bonobo” on my player. Oh yes, let’s finish what the vanished Kraut had skipped! Those guitar strings, the scent of fast food, bacon… yummy! Kota is so destressing and calming. It makes the world around me feel so slow and peaceful. The saturation of my surroundings increases. Am I getting saner in my mind? No, this can’t happen directly after a person has evaporated in front of me without anybody noticing it.

At the same time, I see Justin together with Trevor… Still the same argument about Dana? I hope so, since that could mean that some details have remained the same. Right, Dana… how did she look like today? I cannot remember but I know that her look has also changed. Besides, I wonder how Just and Trevor have left Blackwell after the incident. Have they both left the Academy before Nathan killed himself? So many questions.

During I take out my diary, I notice something else. Where is the photo I’ve taken like five minutes, ago? I think, there will be more answers to discover if I ask the _correct_ questions. Okay, last entry was September 13 th. The creepy entry from October is not deposited, yet. Gosh my head. How will I ever be capable of solving all this garbage? I start writing…

“October 7th, 2013

-Awoke in a storm, had bad Amnesia and felt like shit  
-Multiple events were put together  
-Storm with tornado moved towards me  
-Chloe let fly off something at the cliff  
-Dagger placed on a tree stump flew in my hand and killed Chloe three times  
-Chloe saw me dying somewhere before  
-While all this, I felt something writing on my skin  
-After reawakening in Jefferson’s class my powers had changed  
-I pulse now in future and in past and can change position deliberately  
-I can also move persons that are in contact with me  
-Evan saw Nathan dying and forgot everything after I moved us backwards  
-I’m bullied  
-Nathan knows Chloe  
-Chloe has red hair  
-To specific events, something ports me to a designated area  
-Brooke hangs out with Warren”

Ouch, this is a lot. My fingers hurt. Not well trained in writing, aren’t I? Guess I should do more with them. Like playing the guitar, which has torn strings or writing bullshit-entries into my diary… or other things that you can do with… fingers… like… for instance, eating tasty Waffles. I’ve digressed… Must keep writing!

Chloe enters the Diner. Hell what? That pissed off face will never change, no matter what through what havocs I’ve stumbled upon. I reckon the havocs are my deeds. Joyce encounters her immediately. Chloe doesn’t answer her nor does she fly off the handle. Another mystery. I run towards her, overlook Justin’s skateboard on the ground and slipped off. _No,_ I won’t pulse because of clumsiness! I fall onto Chloe. My body in the right position to give her a kiss… yay, nothing different got space in my head. Justin starts laughing at us, “Man you two are so cool! Wanna hang out later?” Damn he’s stoned. Just a little tap to his shoulder and he’d lose hold and slip to the bottom. Stoned enough to barely differentiate between male and female.

Chloe’s face… oh man. So close again. “You are here? Great. C’mon, we need to talk,” she says to me first. “Let’s go to the booth, back there. And turn on some tolerable music,” she says while walking to the jukebox. Some Punk music blasts through the old speaker of the jukebox. The trucker raises his head, looks over to us, shakes his head, “Punk girls…” with his grumpy voice. I’m still listening to Kota with one ear. Bonobo’s album from 2000 is the greatest. Didn’t I owned the album.

Chloe and I, we both sit in our corner booth. Joyce serves me the Belgian waffles. “I think I’ll leave you both alone,” Joyce smirks and serves other customers. Chloe grabs my diary. I don’t mind her for doing this. Her pissed off face changes drastically. The song out of the jukebox ends. Another country style track begins a lot lower on volume. Chloe looks at me… I know that expression. I think I don’t have to describe her keychain or the number of cents she carries in her pockets. 86, was it? “Max… I really shot you today, didn’t I!? I’m so fucking sorry,” she tries to apologize and looks down. With her right fingers, she slides along the carvings on the table. The diary to her right is still opened up. “You’ve actually never seen me today, but I changed something,” is my only answer to this. I begin to eat, while both of us keep the silence. Kota is over. I turn off my music player and chuck it back in my bag.

“I see your… unscathed arms. You left a stain of blood on the seat. My stepass is gonna kill me when he finds out,” Chloe whistles in deep anxiety. I stop wondering what’s wrong here. The left arm is fine and the left hand uses a fork to shove Joyce’s tasty waffles into my mouth. Yummy as always! Chloe keeps on whistling, “I see what you wrote in your book. I know this handwriting…” My phone vibrates. It’s 5:45pm, already? I figure it. This message will give me an answer. I know enough about this slowly corrupting timeline.

“Will you help?” I ask her while searching for my cellphone in the bag. No matter what her answer might be, I’ll love her. I’m interested in what she says and what message I’ve received.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decisions made by Max (their importance/weight is kept secret):
> 
> -She took a photo of the written message on the mirror inside the Diner’s restrooms  
> -She took notes about her last hours and wrote them comprehensibly into her diary  
> -She realized the initial ignored message on her phone and decided to have a closer look
> 
>  
> 
> “Memorize Max” (Events or occurrences everybody took note of, including Max):
> 
> -Max saw an event reoccurring -> Victoria iterated the ridicule although she had evidently left her room  
> -While contemplating awards and trophies behind the glass cabinets, Max had also discovered the dagger from the time fragment  
> -Max and the strange student from abroad met for the first time and she had problems trusting him  
> -Max found out that the stranger had cleaned Daniel’s slate because of the bullies  
> -The German student from abroad vanished in front of Max just like Victoria did in the dorms


	6. Letters of despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being at three places, simultaneously, drives Max crazy. But she gets back up. The question is, what answers will she get before the timeline resets or repositions her?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (August 2017) Most recent updates:  
> -removed two small logical errors out of my own plot  
> -corrected minor grammar constructions (mostly time-based backshift)  
> -shortened a couple of too long sentences  
> -replaced one or two British words with US words  
> -changed a few wrong definitions  
> -colloquial language adjusted in Max's train of thoughts

**Chapter 06 – Letters of despair**  
_(Updated August 11 th till 12th 2017) **  
**_ **Theme Song: This Will Destroy You – Quiet**

Sands flooded the academy. The storm burst inside the big entry hall. Blood painted the wall and ran down due to gravity and the strong undertow of the wind. This sepia look inside of Blackwell with red being the only left color was magnificent. I saw red, indeed. The knife cut the lives out of them all. Supreme brutality within that dream felt alike reaching a big goal. As soon as you made it up, you win and can forget about all the horror you had to encounter along with your life. I rewound time just to see the big swarm of sand particles leaving the entry hall while blood slowly reverse erased itself along the wall of posters. Her blood on the cabinet twitched. However, I wanted it to end differently…

Whoa what was that? All the sounds of my surroundings come into sharper relief. The jangling of Chloe’s chain around her neck, the sizzling out of the kitchen. I’m home. It was a strange vision, if you think about it. Chloe is sitting in front of me. All time nervous, yet determined, “After what I’ve read and seen… hell yes!” she confirms. She will help me solving my self-constructed enigma. She can remember the shot in my arm although I moved us back in time. Her memory won’t be rinsed by time-altering powers. I watch the message on my cellphone. I shake my head as I read it. Kate has written something to me which is impossible.

“It was great seeing you smiling, today. And thanks for your visit. Oh and think about meeting Mr. Jefferson!”

I must answer something,

“Thanks Kate. You are my last hope.”

Sigh, _hope_ will drive us all to death, sooner or later… I look up and eye Chloe’s caring face. Dammit what will I say to her? If I stay here any longer, she can’t help me. I’m afraid to lose the game again. Justin and Trevor start their fight. Joyce reconciles their argument as is well known. Justin hasn’t put his skateboard away. Will he ever learn? The trucker asks for more coffee. Shouldn’t all these events have shifted one day later? Wrong questions Max.

“So, what’ll we do?” Chloe wonders. “You’ve seen me doing strange things. If I told you, that I’m not crazy, would you believe me?” I ask her back. “Max, I’ll have to show you something at home,” she avoids my question. “Do you trust me?” I insist with a more precise question. “Yes, I do!” she replies with wobbly voice. I see the red bruise around her neck much clearer. She lays her head down on the table. With both her hands she’s wiping through the red hair, giving herself a gentle massage. I wish I had the courage to do the same for her. Joyce swings by, “Ouch, what’ve you done to your neck, my girl?” with a soft touch on the backside of her neck, Joyce examines the injured skin. With her fingernails, she softly strokes along her skin. Chloe aggressively slaps Joyce’s hand away, “Don’t you _fucking_ touch me there!” she screeches desperately.

All customers stare at us. Chloe’s heart races. At the same time, I realize that she also became damn scrawny. What’s happening to Arcadia Bay. Famine here in Oregon? “I’m… I’m glad seeing you both talking to each other again. I’d better leave you alone, both of you,” Joyce gives up the conversation with her daughter. Oh my, shall I pulse back to prevent her from touching Chloe? No, I can’t risk the next neck-breaking mistake. I don’t want to find myself in the dark room, all over again. I’ll try another method.

“Hey Joyce, you’ve seen the guy in the corner booth talking German?” I ask her friendly. “I once had a romance with a German, but… I’m not getting jerky,” she answers and leaves us. The customers stop their gazing. Chloe falls on the bench behind her. I think, Joyce has reminded Chloe of a very uncomfortable incident. She’s been stirred up entirely. Still pitiful. 5:55pm, dammit I must do something!

“Chloe, please follow me!” I’m begging while grabbing her wrist, that she’s been using to cover and brace her face with. Together with me, she leaves the diner whimpering noticeably. She’s – more or less – numbed. But, I can’t devote myself to her trauma, since otherwise, I’ll relive through my trauma once again. I wouldn’t mentally survive that. “C’mon Chloe, don’t you leave me here!” I snarl at her while dragging her along behind me. Justin follows us with his view, a few other confused costumers, too. Christ, I feel so sorry for Joyce. I hope this wasn’t an all-day chit-chat between Chloe and her.

After reaching Chloe’s truck, she gradually regains sanity and enters the car on her own. I open the door on the other side. The sun is getting lower. It’s getting late afternoon. Before entering the car, I realize the wide stain of blood. It completely dried… and the interior of the door also contains thick splats of blood. The sole view makes me sick. I slam the door shut. I can’t go in her truck with this disgusting feeling. I could throw up any minute.

“Get out Chloe, **fast**!” her side of the truck remains open. Chloe staggers around the truck’s bed and approaches me using my body as a crutch. I hold her while forming my right hand to a fist. I know this is going to hurt a darn lot.

The instant scream that echoes in my head, bangs from one ear to the other. The humming of the whales squeaks as if they suffer more and more. -------- The acute bell rattles and makes me wanna vomit. The choke on my neck remembers me of the dark room. -------- I move us forwards in time and try to position us beyond the gas station on the other side of the street. Somewhere nice.

I sense cold water around the feet. Digging deeply into the wet sandy ground. My left arm starts pricking. I feel Chloe’s skin in my palms, her gorgeous fragrance caressing my mind. It’s solacing to be so close to her again. My strength dwindles. I fall into the water and black out in the meantime. I conceive a sting on my neck. Am I back in the dark room? Every inch on my body feels disabled. There’s a wonderful component, though. Something touches my head… deep inside my Caulfield’s-Mind I’m grateful for this stroking around my head. Unfortunately, I can’t respond to this beautiful feeling. This condition reminds me of my hangover. Christ, why can’t I see anything? A pure tone begins beeping in my head. I’m becoming deaf. Shit! I’ve been repositioned to Jefferson, haven’t I?

 **FUCK NO!** Dammit, I need a rule which counters this curse. Shit no! Not again. I don’t want… I won’t… dammit. Bad words won’t help me. My mind is frightened. I don’t want to be in this devastating pit of loathing. But this aura… it feels so different.

Maybe it’s just my head doing more of its shenanigans? Hey Max, you’re back at the fugly beginning. Could it be that you’re just going insane and living through a looping cycle of doom, over and over, until you can finally let go of the fact that Chloe was accidentally killed? Perhaps, this was meant to be. My ears catch the soft noise of the ocean. Basically, that’s where I’ve wanted us to move. Apparently, I set us there just to be repositioned into Jefferson’s shitty grasp. Slowly but very surely, I perceive… music? No whales humming and whining? I hear a girl singing. A very dead sound in my ears.

I can’t open my eyes. The lids burn as soon as I try to open them. I’m weaker than my body. After all my amnesia-shit, I can surely profess that this place doesn’t feel like a complete nightmare. Gradually I get my eyesight back. It’s fricking blurry. The saturation of this room is not low, which surprises me. So many colors. The scheme is abundant. No need to focus Max, you’ll mess up, this way or another. You know where you are and where you belong. Defenseless and helpless in of Jefferson’s nether. My eyes seal again. How long can I endure? This beautiful scent of… cigarettes? The phantom of the last pulse with her? I hear a shutter with a mellow flash that even burns through the narrow gap of my eyes. Approved Max, you are _goddammit_ back in his deadly grip. If you would’ve been somewhere else simply proves that you had evoked a unique method of dreaming lucid nightmares. I must admit though, I’m not hearing the whales. So, what happens, now?

My nose fully works and I can say that I’m definitely not smelling this distinct plastic, nor the ground beneath my body nor the tripods... It’s wood... Chloe’s tender blanket below my face. Where the hell am I? The breath of cigarettes exhaled into my face in lieu of booze. Normally, I’d say ‘yuck’ but this time, I’m sure that Jefferson wasn’t smoking. Don’t tell me I am at three places simultaneously. At the sea, in the dark room and… where else? That’s the question. I think too much, although my head keeps spinning and pushing itself too hard. Yep, being a bonehead means it’s not healthy when you think too much. For no reason, my heart is fairly calm. Nothing in my chest pounds rapidly. I wouldn’t want to run away. Actually, I want to stay.

I hear somebody screaming. All sounds are, yet again, very deaf. The stitch on my neck burns like fire. I’ve got the unpleasant feeling that I’ve molded two events together. Is this the reason for the first dream within a dream, which I had experienced? That thing which had happened, before I was reawoken in the photography class? Does it mean, I’ll reawake somewhere else, now, and suffer from amnesia, all over? Argh, my throat again. I regain more eyesight. Sunlight? I spot a window with God rays shining on my face, although my perceived image still equals a blur. Despite that I can’t feel the warmth. My skin feels so dead. The image ain’t entirely sharp, but, I’m very sure, this is not the dark room.

Christ, I forgot how hard it was to draw every single breath. I begin to hear the sounds a bit sharper… it really is music played back on a stereo. A beautiful voice in this seemingly empty shell, called Max. Thanks for this ounce of redemption. The softly sighing wind of breath leaving and entering my nostrils is the only orientation about life and death. I wouldn’t call this a déjà-vu, but this is more likely a parallel universe. In fact, I begin to like it here. That’s what I deserve. Bad treatment for bad utilization of time-traveling-powers. It’s tiring… I need a… quick nap…

Reawaking, some control over the muscles returns. Wherever I am lying, the ground is soft and cozy. I can’t move my head, dammit. What about the phantom imprint of Chloe? It remains its pressure while the rest of my body is entirely tranquilized… I can’t comprehend this shit. “… _groan_ … Chloe…,” my heart screams after her. “What?” a muffled answer from somewhere out of the room. Am I transcending to heaven? I’m hallucinating again, I guess.

Thinking about the chronological order of the dark room, it would be time to be strangled, now. Maybe I can finally give up. My psyche can’t stomach it anymore. I discern clicking. Not the remarkable sound of a shutter, though. It’s more likely the typing of keystrokes on a keyboard. What the hell happens. My vision becomes sharper. It’s Chloe’s room.

Definitely! I’m not hallucinating. It is real. A teardrop leaves the right eye. Coursing down along my nose until it reaches the upper lip. Tickling along the lip, the tear flows down the left cheek and gets imbibed by the blanked beneath my head. After that tear, another follows. And the next… the next… my gorge starts hurting. I am not supposed to be here! I belong to the dark room to be tormented to death. However, I had to break the rules to the better. I pass out…

I awake, the sun is shining through the dirty window. Finally, I can feel it on my skin. My eyes fully work. Chloe is sitting on the very edge of her bed. Good to know that I’m napping through almost all events, however, it never feels like the important recovering sleep. Hence, I’m very tired. The last thing that I could get here would be a sober mind. Never! “I don’t know what you’ve tried. But you teleported us to the beach, and then you passed out instantly. I carried you back to my truck. Damn you’re hella underweighted!” Chloe talks without looking at me. I’m wearing Rachel’s clothes, “Those are… are Rachel’s…” – “Yeah and you can keep’em. Your clothes are soaked in water,” now she’s looking at me. “You thought, you could clean the interior of my car by conjuring us away?” she asks me sarcastically.

“Whatever Max, I need to show you something very important,” Chloe gets up from her bed. She walks to the left of her wardrobe and drags an old box out of the top shelf. Don’t break the snow doe… it’s placed next to her laptop. Okay, she’s smart. She drops the box at the foot of the bed. A thin charge of dust arises. It is a box filled with letters. It’s odd to see them, no wonder why David wanted to be called ‘Mister Madsen’ back in the ambulance. Best of all: Sir Mister Madsen, Sir!

Somebody knocks on the door. “Chloe, I know you’re in there. Open the door this is an order!” Not this shit again! I’m so close of getting at least some answers and he wants to interrupt us. “Chloe this is important. Unlock the door! I have to get back to Blackwell, asap. I’m needed there after an... accident.” – “Stay the hell a-fucking-way and do your shit elsewhere!” Chloe retaliates. Footsteps on the stairs. He leaves, without a longer fight. Finally!

I smile, as I see Chloe facing me. But she’s concerned, angry and sad. What’s the matter? “Read them. All, if you’d like to. You don’t remember anything, do you?” she wants to know. “I don’t know anything, except being head over heels in… hella… lo… love… with you,” voice gets wobbly “Chloe, I really need a big gulp of water. My throat is killing me.” Great thing, David has just driven off. Without responding Chloe opens her door and walks downstairs. I’ll have a look on some of the letters.

All handwritten. Chloe was so right. One letter is disturbing already.

“sandy angels fallen from the sky,  
lonely souls freed – free falling

big hearts stranding on shore  
in a heartbeat of the lie

beneath our windmill  
I want to only cry in your arms

fire walk with me – enthrall  
the shattering angels in for their kill”

Huh, a poem. I was never good at writing such ones. The next letter is clearer to understand.

“The jinxed accident wasn’t meant to destroy you,  
It had been made it for the better. You will see. I love you!”

Very brief. Wowser, there are hundreds of letters. I can’t plow through all of them in one sitting. Chloe ascends the stairs. A glass of water in her right hand. She hands it to me. “Thanks…” – “Y’know, you remember _me,_ but, you’ve forgotten like _everything else_?” she asks me in all seriousness. “Tell me _everything_ , Chloe!” I beg her overemphasizing the word ‘everything’. She sits down on the desk chair. Quite a distance. She starts talking,

“Listen and shut your mouth, okay?” she continues, “After you were staying here for the last night, my father was alive. And, and you made such a cruel move. I… I…,” her eyes turn red. She tries to swiftly wipe the tears away. A very hard fight. What did I do? Chloe draws fresh air in her chest and concludes, “I never wanted to _fucking_ see you again. You moved to Seattle. First off, I never thought I could be so happy to see a _good friend_ moving away. You should never come back and turn my every new day into another misery. You finally were away… and then, I was alone... My mother was alone… too. I’ve been lonely ever since that very day...”

She exhales. Almost sobbing. Something in my chest feels ruptured. I want to do something, but I can’t. It’s too important. Chloe’s eyes water a few more tears. Ignoring them, she goes on,

“And you were out of my life. You had fucked with it but I knew, I need you more than ever…,” she briefly pauses here to catch her next thought, “Half a year had passed, and suddenly, I received letters. All anonymously delivered. Day by day, week by week. They piled up. More and more. They all were the most beautiful attention that I could get. I was obsessed. I wanted more. I’d wished this person could flood me with a fricking ton of letters. I’d have hidden forever, just to read those wonderfully composed letters. It was the most beautiful feeling that anybody could ever give me. Whoever wrote me, he’d loved me to death!”

She looks to the ground. Her white tank top sucks up all her tears. The chin drips all her tears… she’s so pitiful. Gosh, now I’ve got that same bad feeling in my gut which I had in my heart. Wish I could comfort her. She snivels… but continues, “Now look at this! God, I was so glad Rachel came into my life…”

Silence. I can’t press a word out of the mouth. Compassion. I look down to my blanked. I figure, I’ve never cried so many tears in… I want to say ages… but hell who damn knows? I cried in the storm where Chloe’s hair was blue, I cried into Kate’s arms, I cried in this policeman’s bulletproof shroud…  I’m so darn weak. Silence remains. Chloe now really cries but she keeps on talking,

“Now, _you_ came back to ruin my life again or what? Who are you? Why are you performing magic to let me see that disgusting Prescott pushing a **fucking bullet** through his head?!” she screams at the end, and yet, continues her chain of thought more calmly, “Well, it’s now your turn to tell me, why I shouldn’t kill you! I already told you, I’ve been warned by the person who wrote all these letters. I know the author’s handwriting. It’s You.”

She points at me. It scares me a bloody lot. I start shivering. Chloe goes on,

“This person told a story about two friends that were inseparable. One of them was able to rewind time. They experienced the most vivid adventure. One girl’s name was Chloe, the other girl’s name was Rachel. They both searched a missing girl… They saved a bullied girl from jumping off a roof. Chloe got stuck on trails and Rachel rewound time to pull her ass out of it. They stole money to escape Arcadia Bay for their own future. They both rocked. They loved each other. Fucking best friends forever. Solving puzzles, playing detective, being two sailors within a wild storm on an unbreakable ship. And later, Rachel has to go back the entire route, just to sacrifice herself for Chloe.”

I’ve got no words for this. It renders me insane, just thinking about Chloe reading an episodic novel. Those words can’t be lied. Oh, she begins her next sentence,

“Y’know. I cried rivers for each new letter I had received. I wanted more and more. This story was so beautiful and… keeping me alive… Trust me, if that anonymous writer hadn’t written poor-Me those soul-stirring letters, I wouldn’t have known about one damn reason to live. Then Rachel really came into my life. I thought that it was a sign… that it was she who wrote those letters. Just for me, to show the love and such... We could’ve ruled the damn world. Our own rules. Our own sanctuary was the junk yard. Our own sorrow would be the only supreme truth. But it was _my only_ own sorrow, which was supreme truth. As fast as Rachel entered my life, she left it for this skeevy prick, Frank. However, the letters kept coming. The oldest ones start to turn a tad yellow, already. Then, the flood had stopped. One month later, I received only three more letters. Two were designated to me. The last one to the writer. In my first letter, I’ve been warned about… you... and I was told to open the next one until I’ve faced you. Whenever I’ve got the option, I’d have to take it to kill you. But look at me. **LOOK** at me!”

I get up from her bed. I must hug her or do something to calm her down. I’m not feeling endangered by her. I broke the rules of this timeline. I’ve been able to escape my fate. The – Inside of Jefferson’s claws – fate. Approaching Chloe, I start feeling so abysmal. Her proximity hurts so much but I move closer. The low sun burns its rays through the dusty window over her red hair, on her sad face. She reacts to something,

“Your neck, Max. It’s turning red…,” she is mesmerized by something what I can’t see. I don’t feel anything and somehow… could there be another Max being strangled by Jefferson and I don’t know about it, yet? Oh, man this savage fright. Chloe falls on the ground. She can’t believe, what she has just seen. I look at a trail of blood on her floor straight to the bed. Never mind! It’s time now, Max. Go and give her a very strong and tight hug. She jitters, so do I. I get down on my knees and start embracing her. I know she won’t refuse my hold. So soft, so gentle. I missed her closeness, her scent, her warmth… oh my eyes can’t keep all my thoughts dry. Her neck on mine. Her breath together with mine. I can feel her carotid pounding via my neck. Oh yes! I got her back in my life. I found answers and got rid of my horrifying fate. Finally, I can close my eyes and enjoy myself.

“Asides the heartstring pulling story that the author had sent me, I also received poems, short stories… it was the most beautiful thing that anybody could ever done to me!” She cries onto my shoulder. Man, I’m feeling so strong holding her in my arms. Someone ascends the stairs. David screams, “Chloe, Chloe! Open the door now!” Knocking harshly on her door. He can’t be here. He’s saving me… whatever. “Max, I don’t want to stay here. Move us away. Just _not_ here!” she craves. Oh dammit! David kicks against the door. “Chloe I’m saving you!” he screams from the other side. “He saw the stain in my truck…,” Chloe whispers crying. “I beg you Max. Please do something!”

I press Chloe tightly against my body and clench my hand to a fist. I want to move us back into time but far away. I try to concentrate, but all I can think about is emptiness. I don’t feel a strangle nor am I hearing anything jarring.

The pulse is over. I moved us to the… lighthouse? How? A gasp of relief for Chloe. She gets up and runs to the bench. The sun is going to set in the next twenty minutes. Chloe stretches herself and raises both her arms up in the air. She stands facing with her back to me. Looking at the sea and bracing herself on the top of the bench’s backrest. She continues marveling at the sea. I think I can stand up and join her. Hey, the snowfall? Will it occur? Can’t quite remember it when the policeman was carrying me to the ambulance car.

Chloe turns around and… look at her, what a sigh to behold. She is smiling, “This is the place where I wanted to be…” Closing her eyes and taking a deep breath through her nose, exhaling through the mouth. I’m still feeling so sorry for the injured neck. I know a lot more now, but I must find out more about those letters. I assume, they’re not going to solve every bit in this big maze. But they’ll surely cast some light on this puzzle. Chloe walks around the bench and takes a seat. She taps on her left side inviting me to join. Great, it was about time to accompany her on this timeline. I need another word for this dimension instead of timeline. How about Shit-Array? Nah, that’s too coarse. WTF-Poopstreak? I’m not good at this. However, it does not change the fact that I don’t fricking know, who messed up all of this.

“You neck looks normal. You moved us to the past?” she asks me as if she was used to those powers. I feel something warm running down my nose. Why now? Nosebleeds. I thought my brain does not give a damn anymore about my powers and leaves the bloodvessels alone. “Oh, your nose. Wait a sec… here,” Chloe hands me a tissue. Odd, I thought she carries money, a parking violation ticket and her car keys in the trousers’ pockets. What the hell ever. I tug the tissue out of her fingers and cover my nose with it. “I know who you are and what you did. You wrote the letters to me, and you, maybe know that you kept me alive with those,” Chloe says, but not in a sad way. I think I _saved_ her again?

“Chloe I’m not lying when I say this, I’m afflicted with superdeep amnesia. I know I’m repeating myself but, please, tell me where’s Rachel, why’s your hair red? What did I do the night when William was leaving us all?” finally, I’m asking the right questions. Hope that Chloe doesn’t deflect some of them. “I’ll answer only two of your questions. The third one needs to… come over time,” she responds. Yeah, I don’t care how much you’ll talk to me. The main point is, that I’ll gather as many answers as possible before I change and destroy more stuff on this Shit-Array. “Please, just tell me!” I’m craving clasping my hands. Christ, this sea is so beautiful. I remember the whales on shore. Luckily, I did not stay there.

“I read the story, you had been written to me all the time. Rachel died in the final chapter and Chloe was so damn alone. This Chloe-bitch, clumsy and childish gal made so many bad moves and hella lot of mistakes. She behaved like a total loser. No wonder why Rachel chose to die. But among of all your thousands of letters, you also wrote little poems or cryptic phrases or even little quotes. And in one of specifically those, you wrote something like, ‘Rachel is going to die like in my story, if she visits Blackwell.’ And I mean, yes, she would’ve really died, if she had had to help that silly Chloe out of so much trouble. And that Prescott boy is a nightmare! So, I accepted your poetic warning and told Rachel not to visit Blackwell. This story was so surreal. So strange. But I believed your story. You knew more about Chloe… Me… in that certain story than I ever had known about myself. And that Prescott boy in your story… oh man. I’d never follow this psychopath, again. Max…,” Chloe looks at me after her half-recited novel. “Max… those letters were my salvation. You called your first letter ‘Life is Strange’ and I fell in love immediately. About your other question, I don’t know what’s the problem with my hair. I dyed it red because it totally fits my situation.”

Whew, my brain needs a long break from this. But I must listen. Each detail can save hours or maybe… years. Chloe pets my left shoulder and continues, “You even knew about my stepfather, David. And your description suited him. But he’s worse than in your story. He sees red all day, ever since the flood of letters spammed our mailbox. He slaps me, yells at me…,” Chloe’s voice cracks at that moment. She mopes… she hums a song while staring to the ground, “I can't feel air inside my lungs, I'm dead! All because of you!” whoa, her voice can be so beautiful. I’ll practice together with her back home. But I need to fix my guitar, first.

“More and more letters came and David was balls to the wall paranoid. And one day he slapped my face so hard I considered dying my hair red. Because that’s what he saw every day, as he was entering my room. And my mother trusts in him. He’s not the sensible person she always believes to see, I swear.” I don’t know why I do it, but I start stroking the left side of her neck. It’s too tempting. She’s not refusing… “And one day, there was Frank. Rachel took him away from his hardcore drugs and yeah, now they’re together and left Pompidou behind. You heard him barking on our lawn today?” Chloe asks me after her deeply satisfying explanations. And no, I heard a scream, not a barking dog.

“What about the thing around your neck Chloe? Someone equally treated you…,” I ask her. I know this question hurts. Yep, she cringes in pain. She snivels and starts, “This Nathan dude… I met him at this party. I needed money to leave Arcadia Hell and knew, I can grab some dough from a drunken student. I’ve got no hell of a reason to stay here in this fucking pothole. Nathan ran away and stealthily tranquilized me, although I thought _he_ was drunk and stoned as shit. He took me to his dorm room and made the most disgusting experiments with me. You won’t believe me… Max yours is turning red again…,” Chloe is intrigued by the sole fact, that I’m supposed to be treated alike. “I know what he has done to you,” I say to her. “What about your father?” I insist. Chloe grabs her music player out of her pocket. Still in a strong fight against more tears.

“Wanna listen?” she hands me one earphone. I take it and plug it into my right ear. I guess she wants to listen together with me. A very old USB mp3-player with a very narrow display. I think, her songs give me some space to fathom and collect all information of the passed… hours. A wonderful melody begins to play in my ear. Chloe comes a bit closer to me and moves her head on my shoulder. Oh, thank God! She’s cuddling. Deserved… so fucking deserved. The track is beautiful. “What’s the song’s name?” I ask her.  She has her eyes sealed, not responding me. The sweet scent of her breath. Her soft cheek pushing against my neck and shoulder. The red hair stroking my neck and partly my face. She bends her hand so that I can read the name on the display. The blueish glowing display depicts “This Will Destroy You – Quiet.” I’ve got no words for this.

I move my arm around her. Damn I feel my bony arm. Need more flesh… I’m so ugly next to this beautiful angel. The marvelous noise of the ocean, resounding up to this lighthouse. Chloe is blue, quiet, beautiful and calm. My Chloe in tight hold. I got her back. Well, it seems like I wrote a ton of letters to her. Something that I _actually_ never made while being in Seattle. But in this Shit-Array… timeline I showed my love to her to prevent her from getting into more trouble and subsequently get murdered or worse. And somehow, I managed to tell the story about Chloe and Rachel, not about Chloe and Max. Why did I replace myself? Did I do it to make Chloe forget about me and to look forward to another person? A _better_ person than me? Apparently, Rachel loves Frank more than Chloe. I guess, Chloe might fall in love with everybody who shows at least _some_ attention to her.

I also managed to show her mistakes in behavior by telling the story. She called herself childish, clumsy… rash. That’s a good sign. However, she is very unstable and I have to take care of her. The song climaxes. Reminds me a bit of the song by Frames. So… terrific! Ohno, I’m getting emotional, again. I bearhug Chloe, now. She quietly moans followed by a short smirk. A sign of deep relaxation. I’m literally comforting her. I don’t need to ask her anything about, what she is currently thinking, because she’s listening the same song.

I turn my head and see the tree stump behind us. No dagger. Whew, I’m really somewhere inside the _true reality_. Chloe whistles, “Y’know why he’s always so furious?” very long silence. “He knows, I’m at risk of committing suicide. He reckons, those letters drove me so far over the edge.” again very long silence. Slowly I perceive the calming sounds of the ocean which slaps its waves against the rocks. The sun warms my thin layer of skin. The birds in the trees tweet and coo their melodies into nature. Chloe continues after the song has faded out, “Your nose bled while I was carrying you up to my room. Thinking about it, all the blood in my truck my stepdad must’ve thought, I’d cut my veins.”

It’s interesting how much destruction you can cause with time-based powers. But the strength of love seems to never abate. I saved Chloe’s life by writing stories. Something that actually didn’t happen in the so-called story of ‘Life is Strange’. A story about Rachel and Chloe. I’m fairly certain there’s an explicit reason for her hair not being blue. My hair would be yellow, cause I’m a gutless chicken… Guess I’d dye my hair black. Deepest black. Darker than Nathan’s soul… okay that was a stupid comparison.

The sun sets. No snowfall, no nothing. I managed to keep these supernatural elements out of this world. Christ, finally some other optimistic aspects. Hey, another great thing is, that I’m not getting hurt, when travelling together with Chloe. Damn yes! I’m back in the game. Why am I so happy about it? I think, that Chloe is not the only person, being endangered…

I want to know something else, “Chloe, what was written in the second letter? The first one warned about me? What about the second?” I ask her. She answers clearly, “It described a so-called time fragment, in which multiple events were converged. But the author… I mean, ‘ _you’_ … didn’t mention the protagonist of this world. Quite similar to the nightmare scene of Rachel, before she killed herself to prevent a storm from destroying Arcadia Bay. I recognized your handwriting in the booth of the diner… and your notes had covered similar themes.”

Colors start to fade. My strength dwindles. “Hug me Chloe! I’ll be away for some time,” I tell her… I think I know where I am headed to. “Shhhh, it’s alright, I’m here Max.” she whistles, the phantom pain vanishes. Bright spots on the sea begin to blur. Everything becomes bright and burnt out. The sun ignites the sea. Chloe disappears. I’m blind. Everything’s so white…

And… “Shhhh, it’s al- _fucking_ -right, I _was_ here Max… I _am_ back where _you_ belong,” the Max in front of me parrots my situation. She is bonded to her bed. What did she do this particular time? “Nothing special, you just messed up again,” the Max tells me. I’m sitting on a small chair and watch her helplessly bonded to the bed. I’m back in the asylum. But why? I thought I broke the rules of timeline 2013. “No stupid. You broke your shitty life! You’ve got any idea how much work went into this diary? You barely were back in 2013 and fucked up every-damn-thing within half an hour! What the hell were you thinking? You mentioned Nathan’s suicide and your interconnection with him at the night after the Vortex-party. You know that Dr. Jacoby _was_ _his_ doc in charge? And now he’s yours? Bribable? The rest of the Prescott family pays him to treat your psychosis, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, autism, delusions, depressions, sometimes mania. What else can we invent to pump drugs up into your brain?” she’s so cynic, so mean and so wicked.

I can’t believe it. But I found my way out of the cycle of death and didn’t went through Jefferson’s torture. “Wait…,” the Max attentively changes her attitude, “what’ve you just said?” oh, I must’ve mesmerized her with this thought, haven’t I? “You have not been kidnapped by Jefferson?” No, I have **not** been abducted. How was David even capable of finding me on my first trial? With so much police being present? I was to be dead, actually. “No! You forgot that… _oh right, you forgot everything_ … well, you don’t know that Brooke hangs out with Warren. Two geeks in love. Warren attached a repeater to Brookes drone and they flew high above Blackwell. Suddenly Brooke saw Jefferson carrying you to his car. He was equipped with a gun. Together with Warren, Brooke called David and he the police.” why didn’t this Max tell me that on my first visit in this funhouse? I could’ve been so much smarter, back then, if she had just opened her mouth and talked more plainly. Now, I know how David came with so much frighteningly strong armored police. But why am I back in the psychiatry? I wasn’t caught by Jefferson. The Max who’s tied to her bed in front of me begins to think, evidently. After a longer break she starts.

“You made it out of the time fragment and you haven’t been kidnapped?” she asks… me… herself, to be certain. I hope she’s not talking to another person in this room, too. The last time she was concurrently talking to a doc, Dr. Jacoby. Nathan’s shrink, who had been paid to _take care_ of my ‘mental disorders’. “Look, if you really made it out of there, you’ve got to keep this up! You made a change that I was never able to yield!” the seemingly Real-Max in front of me answers concerned about my thoughts. Is she the anonymous author, since I can’t remember anything? What did I mess up, so that Chloe wanted to forget me, what her father concerned? “You’d better ask all this her mother. I’m not sane enough to repeat this process again. All you have to know is, that I meddled with polaroid images for more than two years after Chloe’s death. I tried to do everything to save her and get her back to life without ruining Arcadia Bay.”

The Max in front of me seems to be glad about my progress. She breathes in, “Do you know that some of those polaroid images are getting corrupted the more I used them? That’s what I called a time fragment. And you found your way out of one, obviously. You **must** abide! There is still the _normal_ chronological order of my self-woven 2013. And yet, as you can clearly see, I’m stuck in a psychiatry. Get going! Finish my commenced work!” she commands me positively thinking. I’m very sure she’s right. “You have to make your alternative timeline more corruptive. Break more and more things. I don’t know anything about your 2013 but it looks like I’ve done pretty well. Go on and you won’t wake up here ever again!” she gladly says to herself… or to me, likewise.

“Whatever you do Max, watch out! Everything you’ll contemplate doing, may or will affect my current condition. You are not so broken as I am. Try not to do more shit, you understand?” she asks. I hope she proves right. Who knows what I could’ve also changed. “And do me one favor,” she concludes a little sadder, “Try not to kill Chloe in a time fragment next time… try differently!”

\--------

I hear the sound of a chime, at the same time, I blackout entirely.

\--------

“I am…” …in her body. I glance to my right. Okay, nobody on the small chair that I was obviously sitting on just a heartbeat, ago. I literally was talking to myself. The door to my room opens. The same doctor as the last time walks in. I guess it’s he. “Dr. Jacoby, why am I tied to…,” I start asking him, but I recognize, he’s humming a song, “Girlfriend in a coma I know, I know. It’s serious… da da di da da da da… Good afternoon Miss Caulfield. How do you feel” – “Dr. Jacoby, I want to read my diary,” I immediately confront him. He looks confused. “What diary Miss Caulfield?” This is worse than I have expected it to be. “Besides, your visitor will arrive tomorrow. Any thoughts about a little guest present?” I want to suffocate myself with pure silence. I think, being quiet and writing letters saved more than using conversation skills. Despite everything, I can’t remember writing one of them.

I am back in the psychiatry. This seems to be a typical, medical round of Dr. Jacoby. He’s paid by the Prescotts. Next time I’m back in 2013 I must encrypt my diary. It does not exist in 2015 for some reason. Just like those fading little tattoos on my skin, drawn with a simple pen. I think, when I’m back in 2013 I’ll have to stay with Chloe but… no! I can’t be reset to Jefferson’s class… so what next? Shit! I’m begging not to get back to the shore and cut through Chloe’s throat again. No… I’d rather be in the dark room, strangled to death instead of killing my red-haired angel. Oh right… I also need to find out, why she really dyed her hair red. I don’t believe it’s because of David’s anger.

“No, I have not. Where is Michael…? I could really use some relief,” I kindly ask Dr. Jacoby. He scratches his forehead and snorts, “Phew, this is…,” he whistles to himself, “ _another suspension of disbelief_ …” and again clearly to me, “odd, you screamed at Michael after your commitment to this hospital. But I’ll make sure to let him know, that you want to see him,” he responds and leaves my room. I was mean to Michael? God, I really have to do _sane_ things in 2013. The crueler stuff I’ll face, the more broken my current state will be rendered. Michael enters my room smiling at me. I don’t care what he’ll say to me, I just need someone to pet and calm me, before I’m totally losing it.

Down on my arms, I investigate my _tattoos_. Hey Memento, I’m reliving the movie. A tribute to whomever wrote the script… or the story behind all this. On the table where I was actually talking to the shrink, there’s a book. It doesn’t look alike to my old diary. But we’ll see. After Michael has unchained and freed me from this bed he kindly says, “Good afternoon, Max,” he takes a seat to the right of me, “you’d better watch your language. I know, that is not you, doin’ all this. You promise me, to be kind?” ah my God, he can pull one’s heartstrings just the way he’s talking. Undoubtedly a good soul this world is lacking. I smile at him and open my right hand. He reaches me.

I see another note on my right arm describing, “There will be no violins when you die…”. Whatever that may mean. For the first time, I see a name tag pinned to Michael’s tunic. It shows ‘Michael DaCosta’. And yeah… he surely has similarities with Daniel. There’s an unpleasant feeling rising in my heart, that this _game_ is beyond any human perception. And I am human with a curse. Changing things that nobody else ever could. And worst of all: I’m forced to feel its impact. Michael pets my hand with both his soft and warm hands. This itty bitty little bit of love including my current anxiety makes my eyes water. I’m now well aware that I’ll continue crying in my past future…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decisions made by Max (their importance/weight is kept secret):
> 
> -She determined to travel together with Chloe through a time checkpoint  
> -She obliged Chloe and pulsed away from trouble  
> -She determined to change her behavior when she would be back in 2013 on Tuesday
> 
>  
> 
> “Memorize Max” (Events or occurrences everybody took note of, including Max):
> 
> -Max experienced a strange vision and regains her consciousness in the Diner  
> -Chloe decided to back Max (in the diner)  
> -Joyce stirred her daughter up by mentioning the injury around her neck  
> -The sole look of Max’s blood in Chloe’s car made her sick  
> -Meanwhile Max was being numbed, she tried to identify her surroundings and caught the sound of a shutter  
> -Chloe heard Max saying her name while she was unconscious  
> -Max read two of her alleged self-composed poems  
> -Max found out about Chloe’s past and the letters of despair  
> -Chloe told Max about the so-called time fragments  
> -The Real-Max didn’t react to Max’s questions about the author of the letters


	7. Burning Horizon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burning Horizon. Chapter seven, the most important chapter. Max finds out about the way time fragments work, she lights upon a magical polaroid image somewhere beyond our tactile reality. After all the trouble, she underwent over and over, she finally understands, what to do and what decisions to make. It would seem that Chloe is not the endangered character anymore. Her self-created, new reality is almost unbearable for her. She turned the tables and is now at a great risk to harm her future self.  
> Chapter seven is subdivided into five crucial segments:  
> (1) Vision | Psychiatry  
> (2) Investigation of new diary  
> (3) Transition back to 2013  
> (4) **** (not written to avoid spoilers)  
> (5) Beginning of Tuesday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Original date of release - May 4th 2017 -
> 
> (September 2017) Most recent updates:  
> -enhanced vocab  
> -more suitable words were chosen  
> -some broken sentences corrected  
> -A FUCKING lot of (hm / uhm / what the hell) has been removed along with hundreds of redundant questions in Max's train of thought  
> -hence, an improved overall readability (because of the afore-mentioned bulletpoint)  
> -some minor unimportant details have been removed or refined  
> -few repetetive errors are removed  
> -just so you know, "My brain boiled through my skull after I had finished the very last page of this seemingly endless chapter!"

**Chapter 07 – Burning Horizon**  
_(Updated September 14 th till 17th)_ ****  
Theme Song: Voicians – Messiah

I pinned the image at the wall.  It seemed damn outta place. My mother began preparing our breakfast. She seemed to talk to Rachel. The door to my room was closed, just as my soul. I smelled the sweet scent soaring up the stairs, squeezing through the gap beneath the door. Right into my nose. I remembered this area. This distinct melody of a voice. It was my father! Hadn’t seen him nor heard from him in ages. I thought, I’ll talk to him in a minute.

But first I was fairly interested how my friend would appreciate the very creative image on the wall. Damn, she must be there next time, too. On shore… that one perfect shot. The burning horizon in its golden hour. I guessed, my instant hadn’t been able to capture the rest around the horizon. It was too bright, either way. But to be honest, you could clearly focus the horizon. A sharp blur, so to speak. The sun melting the sea, tinting its color to a glowing orange layer above the ocean. Hey, how ‘bout a wall filled with those polaroid images? Hella amazing! All those photos pinned onto the posters and placed above my handwriting on the wall. “I can’t sleep,” it said.

Man, why did I fall asleep on shore, then? Somebody stole my bag, after I had zonked out. What a pity. Well, another day, another music track on my stereo in my old chamber. It’s “Voicians with Messiah”. Given that “Don’t stay here” had been a total coincidental track, this one is totally diverging with my inner feelings. Way too gloomy to be frank. I could need more merry tracks. Suddenly, I saw a knife sticking inside the wall. Beneath my first polaroid photograph. Who the hell thrusted this thing in there? With much strength, I was capable of pulling it out of the wall. Damn the shiv is wide and sharper than ever knife I’ve ever used. It had strange adornments at its blade and at its grip. How did it get there? It wasn’t there before, right? The song intensified, reached its most intense part. I watched to my left again. Gee… now there was a mirror in my room with similar symbols on its frame around the glass? Suddenly appeared, just like the dagger? I inspect myself in the reflex. The world there was dark and creepy. I saw my blue hair turning gray. But, not as if I had the feeling of getting older, however… all the colors faded inside the reflection, desaturated until there was no color left. A grayscale of sadness. The place in the reflection could need some clearance. Then the song on the stereo suited quite perfectly.

I grabbed the dagger and looked into the mirror again. A reflection within a reflection. The dagger shined too bright, so that it almost burnt my eyes, when looking too deeply into it. At the same time, I heard a loud scatter of… glass? Sinister and frightening. Two girls were in that reflection, almost tinted blueish transparent. Situated at the desk. One was working at the laptop, and the other one embracing her fondly. “Chloe you’re back,” a deadly, almost inaudible sentence and barely comprehensible. I once knew that voice, well. That little girl masked the other girl entirely by embracing her. A voice out of her arms responded, “Whoa! Down ----”. I heard my door being opened. Slamming against the wall. “I’m just… I’m just so glad you’re here,” the girl, hugging her adds. I turn around, because I can’t see the person who banged the door open. The doorway remained empty inside the mirror.

As I turned around, I saw a girl with floods of tears standing in the doorway. The two ghosts weren’t there anymore. Why wasn’t she in the reflection, likewise? Considering, I had had no memory on shore and nothing had been changing since that specific point in time – in terms of reminiscence – the little girl in the doorway had to know some details about me and my current state, I hoped. Hell, she’s saccharine, damn cute, even if she was obviously crying.

I lowered the blade towards the ground. For no apparent reason, my hand grasped the handle strongly. That silent moment of deep staring into each other’s eyes was long and sad. I’m kinda absorbing her fright and suffer, during the dagger was sucking mine with its gross power. Hella creepy. Yet, I knew, things would change to the better, or maybe... to nothing good. I remembered something…

 **Whoa**! Not again. Damn these visions. Phew, I’m back. Back to the so-called ‘hospital for mental treatment’. Michael unties me from the bed’s straps. Those are leathery and made my skin sweat instantly. Gross! Both my feet and my right hand were bonded with straps to small metal brackets on each corner of the bed. How deep was I actually ever fallen?

Finally, I can move my limbs. Thanks Michael, really! Next to Kate, you are humanity’s last hope. “Nice song, Max,” he talks to me. What does he mean “What song?” I wonder. “Title’s on your arm, haha,” he chuckles pointing at my right arm. Good to know the Real-Max from 2015 listens to different music or music I’ve never heard about. Michael walks to the table and invites me to join him with a slight nod. Man, he’s the cutest guy ever. Why is he working at such a heinous place?

I join him and see some sort of diary lying on my table. Few words twitch and shimmer, already. Oh well, the other Max seems to have begun an encryption all anew. In lieu thereof, Me, I could’ve – at least – tried to solve it on my first go. But my time was running, like… ten times faster when flipping through the pages. Oh snap, am I searching excuses for my own actions, now?

“Your world is incredibly negative, Max. Why are you so pessimistic about life?” Michael begins the conversation. Without answering him, I read a few lines on the left page. Intriguing how negatively chosen those words on the page already are. I’d disagree being a pessimist, but, be that as it may…

Michael smiles as I return the look. “I’m sorry for whatever happened Michael. It wasn’t _me_ ,” is my cheap excuse. Christ, if I really wrote an – heartstring pulling – episodic story in letter form, why are my words still so weakly chosen in face-to-face conversations? Guess, my written diction was always better than my manner of speaking. Michael reacts with a chuckle again. Forgiveness for the devil he doeth not see. The devil who’s crawling inside of me.

Damn Max, you really are becoming cynical. “I believe in the good of us,” he says with cheerful voice. I think, I had my high dose of hugs for now. Enough cuddled and talked without changing anything. I must take action and rule this nonsense dimension of two parallel years. I assume, this is a new legacy to me. What the bloody hell ever. I’ll work it out. “Do you have a brother?” I start wondering. “Yeah, and you know him… _very_ well, little doe,” a brief, sweet answer with a fairly sad ending.

“Is he doing… okay?” I keep up asking, “You can go out and ask him by yourself,” he answers a bit frustrated. Countenance changing drastically… What, Daniel is here? I stand up, the chair behind me almost falls to the ground. Instead, it sways on its plastic chair legs. I fast stride to my widely-opened door. In the hallway filled with patients and other nurses, I can’t spot Daniel so far. Turning back to Michael I tell him, “Can’t see nor find him…” – “Yeah, he won’t wave at you, I’m afraid,” he replies without looking at me. Nice fact, that all the people won’t look at me when it’s about something strange.

I raise my hand to rewind our conversation. Until I reach the first sentence.

If there’s something that I’ll never learn by myself, it’s talking to others properly. However, giving rewind-powers the “benefit of the doubt” may not be the most intelligent thing, but, to be honest… it’s a craft I still have to master. Look at this place, look at the situation. Look at Michael, saying the same words all over again, because my mind tells this entire dimension to move backwards in time.

“Your world is so negative, Max. Why are you so pessimistic about life?” he repeats, although my train of thought nearly masks out his words.

Mind you, all this crap would be a big mental disorder… everything that I went through. That would mean, I’m living backwards, over and over again. Not being able to live right here and right now. It would’ve never been the problem of neither acceptance nor leaving all this shit behind, if I hadn’t gained those powers. Always moving backwards… Seems like directions are splitting up, by design. The _current_ 2013 is both. Going to both future and past, whereas I can choose my position, as I please. Damn, I’ve been thinking for too long, I totally forgot that Michael was sitting next to me, all along. He’s – I guess – eagerly waiting for anything like an answer…

“My bad Michael. I think, my pessimism hurts like mad,” I try to conclude his last thought. He’s somewhat grateful, “I believe in the good of us. You are honestly the opposite,” and realistic, he is. “Is that the reason behind Daniel being here?” I deduce, trying to get a better answer out of Michael. “He came here for the same reasons like you,” now the vividness on his smile died. He clears his throat and rubs through his face. Apparently, those hard facts have stressed him.

Now, I can clearly recognize his brother’s face. It’s Daniel simply grown up and overflowing with energy. He has said, ‘The same reasons that I had’. Huh, what reasons? “You better go ask him yourself, if you can’t remember. Memorize Max,” he says while getting up from his chair. No, I don’t wanna get in a fight with Michael, later on. I don’t want him to remember this conversation.

I raise my hand to go back to the beginning of our chat. Christ, I can feel my phantom pain, growing on my chest. At least, there’s no _other_ _pain_ , meanwhile.

“Your world is so negative, Max. Why are you so pessimistic about life?” he asks me. The kind and friendly face has been resurrected. I look down, something glowing appears in the very corner of my view. My body _burns_ … not literally, but the words that I had written on my skin shine through my veins beyond the tissue. A mixture of yellow and a tad red. I got the rest of my answers:

-Friendship of Rachel prioritized  
-Max jinxed accident  
-Joyce gave me photobook  
-Warn Kate about party  
-Tell David about abduction  
-Corrupt Polaroid  
-Break 2013  
-Chloe will die inside fragment

These few words are only written on my right arm. Meanwhile, I see other notes on my body must’ve been added. I’m also bony again. I’ve lost over – at least – thirty pounds? I rolled my way back? Damn, my breast, belly… thighs, I see bones pushing through my skin everywhere… and I wrote on every spare inch of my body. The glow fades after a few seconds. All that remains is ink.

I realize that I can reignite my writings when I reversing time. I glance up and see Michael waiting for my answer. He’s not seeing, what I do see, right? Nothing special, after all…

I must be more creative, when talking to him. This time I start off differently, “I regret every day, for what I’ve done to your brother… and you. I am nothing more than pure destruction…” Michael seems to appreciate my words, “Max, you’d better go to his room and have a look. He might listen.” Poor Daniel… I think I had destroyed his life, too. At the very least, I must’ve been an influence.

Maybe the student from abroad could help out, a little. I mean, when I’m two years back again. Don’t know, whether they have anything in common. But, as Kate assures, “He’s a sensible dude” or whatever she had said. On the other hand, I don’t know why Michael has called me ‘Memorize Max’. Well thanks for the _compliment_ , at least it’s no name like Wonder Woman. Because I’m sick of “superpowers”. Just when I thought, nothing beats the name “Max Crackfield”, another dude comes across and calls you ‘Memorize Max’.

“You haven’t mentioned Daniel, since your admission to this hospital. And all the sudden, you’re behaving kindly towards us,” Michael thinks aloud. Now I found the next answer. Whatever mischief I was doing in 2013, it disturbed and ruptured my current Me so heavily, that I ended up here being tied to the bed. Yet, I don’t get it why I’ve been taken away my diary by Dr. Jacoby. How can there be an interconnection between Nathan and Max? There was a lot more going on.

Dammit! The Max from before was so right, I need to do more sane stuff in 2013. Maybe… I can do wonderful things together with Chloe. She’s lonely anyway. Perhaps, there’s also a way to get Rachel back into our life. I’m sure, that sophisticated methods had been used to write the entire story about Chloe and Rachel only. Why them? Why would I ever want to lure Chloe to Rachel? And I’ve just realized, the unknown author – who’s definitely me – composed a letter for herself that Chloe must give me, if she is not any longer inclined to murder me. I should’ve asked her, when I had the time to do so. Cuddling her was too tempting.

I must answer Michael; my altered behavior truly is suspicious. “Isn’t that, why I’m called memory woman?” I messed the name up. He already shakes his head. I assume, this name bears a deeper meaning to him, though I liked “little doe” a lot more…

Time to rewind. Good thing it doesn’t hurt as much as this pulse-teleport thing. I raise my hand to rewind back to his last given statement.

“You haven’t remembered Daniel, since your admission to this hospital. And all the sudden, you’re behaving kindly towards us,” he thinks aloud again. “Some things will take us some time, to come to terms with, won’t they?” I can quickly answer. Michael smiles while he slowly begins to nod. I can’t believe it would be so hard to talk about his little brother. It’s not only about Chloe’s life, that I had messed up. It’s also about Daniel’s. And I’m eager to find out, what he’ll tell me, if he even feels equal to talk to me.

I walk outside to face my name plate in front of my room. It tells, “17 – Caulfield” A black sign with white letters printed on top. The thin layer of glass above the plate glimmers from the surface cleaner. Every name plate owns a certain color. I still think, that yellow suits my character more...  So, the only thing I need to do is finding DaCosta. I follow the long boring corridor. Hallway per hallway, I face other patients. Dang it! I forgot to say, “Bye” to Michael and I forgot to ask where the room of his brother is. But hey, guess I’ve chosen the right words, before. No need to rewind all over again.

There are so many patients here. I didn’t know that so many persons could be mentally ill. Two of them are having a discussion about war. I remember the guy in the wheelchair. The guy who startled as he saw me. But this time he’s completely in his element when talking to the other scarred over person. The guy in the wheelchair talks a lot, I can’t understand it all clear enough. The noise level inside this light flooded corridor is too high. He mentions that ailerons had failed and he felt a snap. Interesting, but I don’t want to go crazy with my vivid imaginative power. I pass a couple of other patients who immediately terminate their talk as I walk past them.

 _Glancing upon the monster striding across the battlefield_ … Shut up… bonehead! I really am a known personality here. Any person I meet on the way dares at least a glimpse. A fearful glimpse. One patient smiles as he sees me. As I can’t spot Daniels sick room, I hope this guy could help me out. “Excuse me…” – “Ah, **she** has spoken…” he frightens and flees. He contacts a nurse. Didn’t know I’m such a sight to behold. Should I rewind? I’ve got a choice here… ah forget it!

I’m afraid, I must find my way to Daniel, all on my own. The freaked-out patient hasn’t stopped screaming and telling everybody that ‘I have spoken’. Yeah, asking someone something simple poses an instant threat to them. Two nurses try to calm him down. Whoa, all those corners, those angles. This fun house sure is a maze. No wonder, every inch of this hospital looks the same. I can’t remember my way back to my own sick room. Even the signs are an enigma to me. It beats me… I’ve gotta ask one of the other nurses. No rewind can help me out of this situation. I see two other nurses talking about something. With nervous looks in my direction. How conspicuous, I’m a wispy brat with a few ounces of ink on my skin.

Why is it so hard to find his room? I give it up. “Where to Miss Caulfield? Your irresponsible behavior could harm other patients!” an eerie dark voice behind my back. Sure, I pose a threat to others… tell me about it! Look at me staggering along the corridors. I turn around. A few other patients also gawk at me. One of them smirks at me as I return the look. The guy next to him looks deadly pale and destroyed. By drugs, maybe. I hope he’s currently taking the ‘right’ drugs. Dr. Jacoby was the eerie voice from behind that interrupted my lone walk. “I search Daniel’s room,” I answer him with an almost soulless voice. “Yeah, and I was searching for _you_ , Miss Caulfield. I’ve been told you are waltzing around the corridors - outside your room. Follow me back to your room, please,” the shrink commands me. I won’t follow any orders!

I raise my right hand. I will watch him walk backwards away from me. While rewinding time, I see the doc walking backwards around the corner. Imagine, there’s fire behind that very corner and screams would resound from there in reverse. He came from hell to talk to the fiend. Tough luck the fiend owns time-altering powers.

I actually have reversed enough to be reset to the frightened patient. I assume, he has been the guy who contacted the nurse who then has alarmed Dr. Jacoby. Easy chain reaction of one silly decision. Anyway, I must avoid being seen, again. I open the next reachable door. I don’t need any other trouble. I can barely see the number on the plate, but not the name. I’m entering room 23, knocking on it during entering.

“That’s not your style, Max,” a quiet voice talks to me from behind. I recognize this accent. No idea, how I managed to get inside Daniel’s room, purely coincidentally. Luck never sided with me. I turn around and face Daniel... White blazing light spills his room. It’s too bright, I can hardly see his outlines. A shadow caused by backlight. My eyes try to accommodate but it seems as if they can’t adapt. But after some time, I look at the blurry image of Daniel.

His sordid, sad and frustrated expression. His broken heart. I know his pain. But his pain had to grow bigger in the past few years. Something had happened. Not only that, but he also lost all his weight and it’s almost impossible to discover his old shape from 2013. Well, seems like “Famine in Oregon” wasn’t a whacky thought in my head. “God, Daniel it’s… a delight to see you again,” I say – almost apathetically but honestly delighted – and try to say hello by giving a hug. He refuses instantly by crossing his arms and looking away… “Max, what’s your problem?” I’ve almost lost balance on my shaky legs. Damn those drugs that I take must be hardcore. No, I disagree with further failures here in 2015!

I raise the right hand and turn back until I’ve opened his door.

I’m back again in his room. Again, my eyes have to adjust and regulate the high amount of bright light in his room. The door’s shut. Daniel looks at me and gets up from his bed, putting away a book, he’s been reading. Christ, I bloody forgot, that I rigidly keep my position with time-rewinds. I’m quite sure, all those techniques do have a rule. Yet, I can’t master something, what I can’t understand. Maybe I’ll work together with Chloe on the giant corkboard again. Playing detective for personal purpose of my fucked-up world, so to speak. But here in the fun house, it’s now more a question of eloquence. Talk, Max!

“Hey, Daniel,” I start our chat. “Max,” he briefly answers. I go on, “Daniel, I’m here for the same reasons like you but…,” he’s getting aggressive all the sudden, “You definitely had other reasons than I! Stop talking shit! Kate backed you like mad,” he fends off my first attempt to excuse for something I can’t remember. And he’s right, Kate really cared about me like nobody else in 2013, the Shit-Array timeline. Almost like a sister, I never had. “Daniel, I’m begging you! What was the reason for… getting here?” I try to ask him. I can clearly read his facial expression. Denial. He won’t answer. Ugh, if he’s not responding, I’ll need to rewind again. “Why are you asking me? Go and read those notes on your body,” he replies apathetically, turns around and repeats, “Get out!” At least, I know, that everybody else can read my notes. It’s not another figment created by my fucked-up brain.

I raise my right hand and rewind back to the beginning of our depressing talk.

“Max,” he still doesn’t know, how to answer. How convenient, “Daniel, had I ever encouraged you to not give up… to not give up your talent? Looking at your photographs the same way… like you are sketching your images?” great to know, my memory for the regular timeline isn’t busted like my mind. I can remember him being thankful for my encouragement. Even in my nightmare where I was in the diner… Gruesome memory I rather should repress.

All, right, naïve Max, you somewhat scored. Daniel seems to be glad? Glad about your hope raising words. Although I’ve got no idea about the second day in year 20… Shit-Array - Tuesday. I hope he’ll trust me again, so that I can find out a little bit about his reasons. “Why are you saying this to me, now? Two years… Two years after all the shit that happened to me?” he says almost yelling.

He continues with a cracking voice, “The only person who had ever shown minimal pity, was the person, that erased the bad words on my slate…” he utters a sigh at the end. “Yeah, I know it was…,” dammit I don’t know the Kraut’s name. “…it was somebody who had no guts to show his kindness in person,” he scolds me. The sad thing is, it wasn’t even me and I want to be honest with him. It was the strange dude whose English was indescribably odd and - at times - disjointing. I wonder how he’s holding up, now. Daniel’s lips jitter, tears leave his red-turning eyes. “That’s Old-Max,” he goes on with his guilt-trip, “Always nosy, shy, mouth wired shut… you’re too late for any bs-apologies! Get lost!” Daniel screams with his voice cracking at the end.

I want to rewind this occurrence. I’m so close to break through his stubborn distrust. I raise my ha… ouch! Fuck. My legs languish. Not again. I can’t rewind. The dimension around me distorts and warps briefly. I’m helplessly caught in my endless attempts to rewind. Daniel frightens, walks back towards the windows behind him, which spill bright white light into this room. I sense both my eyes’ irises widening. The light burns on my face. This asylum could be the most perfect place… the most perfect place to lose it!

“Daniel…,” I blurt out of my mouth. “Nurse! Oh God, please not this again!” I hear him screaming and talking to himself. Defenselessly, I keel over and fall on my body. Can’t feel the concussion. What has anaesthetized me, this time? My eyes close by themselves. This helpless situation is reminiscent of Kate’s… jump. Argh, she’s alive, Max! Get it in your brain, tell it over and over! She’s alive and sane. However, I really don’t get it, how my powers have left me here, of all things. Blood courses under my nose. I’m a wreck. And a failure beyond any doubt. I want to curl up and die. Fuck, all this is pure embarrassment.

I wake up tied to my bed again. Nice, I’m bonded to these gross leathery straps, yet again. Michael waits for my awakening, since… I dunno for how long. My eyes and nose instantly work. “Wha… what happened, Michael,” I ask him immediately. “That was really brave. I’m proud of you my little doe,” with a soul-stirring smile on his face. Whew, at least, I’m not waking up and things are totally different, as is well known. Michael strokes my right arm. His fingers brushing along my bony skin. Well, what can I do now? I’m sure Michael isn’t allowed to free me once more.

I’d say, this is another “At the end of the day”-situation, but, I’d rather want to get a deeper look inside of the new and encrypted diary. Apparently, it’s not a diary. More or less a script or prototype, I assume. “Michael, I want to have a look in my book. Can you please hand it to me?” I kindly ask him. Answering with a short smile, he gets up from the little stool underneath his big bum. Since I’m caged inside my room, I should have a look on this book.

As my left hand is still free, I can grab the book Michael hands me. Placing it on my crouch, I bend my legs, until the book lays in a perfect angle to read its stories. “I’ll come back later. Need to talk to my brother after… what has happened. It made him feel a little disquiet,” Michael bids goodbye, while smiling at me. He leaves the door open. Am I such a threat even to myself? Whatever, I’m not inclined to stay here, this way or another. The dude in the wheelchair peeks inside my room. What’s biting him? After all, he can still use his arms…

Back to the pseudo-diary. I skip the first page because it’s the photograph from Jefferson’s class. For whatever reason, I’ve placed my first selfie there. Underneath the image I wrote, “You are on this photo” Thanks captain obvious!

The second page already arouses my interest:

“Wanna see, how a time fragment feels?”

It asks me with a stuck-on polaroid photo. Can’t describe any details, though. Everything flickers, twitches and distorts, as I try to examine and peruse. Multiple images flash and vanish… the polaroid works alike a row of photos. Equal to an old film reel. Photos shown rapidly enough, so that the human eye will perceive a fluid motion. Film.

Trying to focus the image, I hear a despicable screech - of all sorts of voices - becoming louder and louder. My head horribly aches, straightaway. Christ, the world surrounding me starts collapsing. My eyes shut.

I hear the rain hammering above me. I’m under some roof. In front of me a door. The narrow gab between bottom and door shines a little ray in my direction. I strongly assume, this is my only way out of here. As I open the door, I…

\--------

I heard the rattling of a bell…

\--------

The door, that I had opened, was the emergency door of our dorms. Hell, how did I get there? This definitely felt akin to a dream. However, my thoughts were clear and all surreal details had remained sharp. I was on the roof. A voice desperately cried, “No!” and the ruckus on the ground started screaming. I knew, where I was but my memory wasn’t rinsed, as against the first “dream within a dream”. The Real-Max from 2015 would have called those “Time fragments”, I figured. Up there I could see the tornado reaching Arcadia Hell. Approaching the ‘lost paradise’ as the Kraut would’ve said, if he could see that.

“Hey, Justin,” I could pick out Chloe’s voice. In juxtaposition, she was down on the ground, the safe bottom. All those gawking, photo-taking, and yet, frozen students made me sick. Among them, I could differentiate between Chloe and Justin. Clear and sharp they were. Chloe nodded, when a presumable ghost was passing her. Guessed that was, when she and I had tried to play detective by mugging Nathan’s stuff. Oh, dear. If I could turn back time… literally.

See? I owned super-powers and they weren’t enough at all. Weird to see Chloe with her blue hair again. I was getting used to the red, more sensitive version of her. Made me sad, observing that old situation from up there. On the brink, down to the abyss. Behind me, the door banged open. Whoa, keep yourself in balance, Max.

As I turned around, rain started pouring down on us, even harder. The grayish clouds became darker. Christ, what next? Out of the darkness from the door – where I had entered the rooftop – Chloe ran in my direction to the ledge and stopped there. Her foot slipped over the brink and for a brief moment, I was being ready to rewind.

What the hell? She held that dagger thing in her right hand. She turned around and instantly yelled, “Don’t you follow me!” I obviously was in her proximity. How wasn’t she detecting me? It only was one foot or two. At the same time, I could see that she was wearing a bag. My bag was… not around my shoulder.

I tried to look at the dagger. Same stuff as known. The dagger had some visual artifacts emitting around its blade, Chloe’s hand. In its vicinity, I could hear a quiet – yet hurting – pure tone. I remembered that ugly bellow, which screeched above Chloe and me at the lighthouse. Never ever wanted to go through that stuff again. Now, she was holding that knife. Horrifying likewise.

All the sudden, a young student joined us. She hastened to us out of the darkness from the emergency door. I recognized those clothes. I had worn them before. Was it Rachel? It’s really weird, seeing somebody through a… time fragment whom I never met before in the real world. Wherever that world may be. I glanced down to my body. Jeans, jacket and tee with a doe. I realized, trying to comprehend all that, was senseless. Rachel quickly turned her head in my direction. As if she had spotted me through the heavy rain. I was transparent within the rain. A nobody. “Chloe, why are you doing this?” that girl who looked like Rachel asked her and changed her look to the punk on the brink.

Her voice… The crashing raindrops on our heads were painfully loud, but her voice made her way through the racket. Those words… they just couldn’t be any clearer. “I’ve always been there for you, and I will keep that up, because I love you!”  Her way of speaking. A natural. Her sentences sliced and cut themselves thru the rain. Why had I to hear her voice up there? Not in reality? Wherever the normal world was dwelling…

All that happened up there was such a wrong kind of déjà-vu. I relived everything in a fraction of a second. Kate had jumped off, but there, in that dimension, Chloe was about to jump, the same? “Don’t come any closer. Don’t you dare!” Chloe tried to get rid of her. At knifepoint, she held it on eye level and tried to prevent Rachel from coming nearer. I remembered being capable to rewind. That’s what I had in mind to do.

I had raised my hand and… nothing happened. Not that again. I was feeling… emptiness - nothing. Just my hand raising up into the falling rain. Drops crashing on the back of my meager hand. Water splashing on my skinny hand. Flowing down on my arm, dripping on the puddle I was standing inside. My cloth soaking up the rest of it.

Those billions of tiny drips that could’ve been the tears shed in Arcadia Bay. I looked to my right to see the spinning tornado coming closer. Chloe and Rachel did also see the hovering menace devouring the first buildings. Tattering slowly the life out of our town. Squatting on the backside of the wall of the emergency door, I saw Victoria. She was crying. Little red lines on her arms. What was she doing up there? Wasn’t that Kashmir outfit too stylish to be soaked up by raindrops or her blood?

Time to recollect all experienced things. Max, study your memory that you hadn’t had in the first time fragment, before. “Chloe, please don’t jump. I’m begging you,” Rachel’s voice is beautiful. Okay, recollect your thoughts faster! I tried to remember everything, before I had entered the fragment. To enter this space, I had focused the image of a printed polaroid photo that had been glued to a book which should be the placeholder for my diary. Meanwhile, I was being in a psychiatry bonded to metal brackets when Michael was leaving my room. Then the polaroid image had flickered, shimmered, twitched like a muscle on a seizure and… something suddenly interrupted my train of thought.

“Chloe, **NO**!” Rachel shouts until her vocal cords gave up and turned her cry into a screech. What, whoa! Chloe gave up. She had jumped off the roof. I wasn’t brave enough to follow her in mid-air. She held the horrifying dagger in both her hands pressing it against her chest. Just hearing the hit on the ground was atrocious enough. Aside from that terrible event, I didn’t hear the students screaming, when Chloe jumped. Rachel fell on her knees, still screaming till her lungs burn like fire.

It was strange to see Rachel somewhere indefinable. Someone, somewhere… a phantom figure. She behaved the same way as I would. I thought about all the letters to Chloe that I wrote. Guessed that I had written the whole story about Rachel and Chloe. My personality being replaced with Rachel. I had never known her. Rachel is a cabalistic punk girl that everybody loved and respected at Blackwell. How can it be that ---- I totally forgot who _I_ was.

That must be the sanest reason so far. I forgot literally every single thing about my actions and me because my entire soul had been impersonated by Rachel. I replaced myself. Well, that’s putting it poetically.

I was well aware that I’d never face her in the real world, because she ran away with Frank. Whatever the definition of ‘real’ possibly meant inside a time fragment. The hurricane approached our dorms… the white disguise with its reddish fractal, that I was used to – when traveling with polaroid images – swallowed all surroundings. The last thing I saw, were two reddish glowing dots via the bright disguise of nothingness.

\--------

The humming of the whales becomes louder, the bell tolls. My head wants to explode. Argh!

\--------

I’m panting for breath, as I’m reawaking in the psychiatry. My lungs burn, my heart races and pounds through my white hospital t-shirt. Leaping the cloth up and down. In my room’s doorway, I spot Dr. Jacoby. He’s trying to comprehend what has happened. Looks like he has been about to leave me, but, he becomes aware of something. I can only feel it. And it’s warm and courses down my nose. That’s what he basically sees. “Miss Caulfield, your nose… are you feeling…,” he nervously returns to my bed. Both my legs are still bended and the page with the corrupted polaroid has remained open.

In my field of view, I watch the man in the wheelchair peeking into my room. As he notices, that I’ve already spotted his rather conspicuous peek, he fast pretends to mind his own business. I reckon, rewinding time and pretending to sleep, would get this pesky doctor out of my way.

I raise my left and free hand and try to rewind. The book before me is still opened with the stuck-on polaroid photograph. While rewinding, it flickers even harder and builds a bridge between the shuttering photos and my eyes. They literally feel, as if they burn around my retina! I scream within the rewind. The growing headache interrupts the reverse motion. The rewind has stopped. The doc is still observing me. The rewind hasn’t been far enough.

I begin to rapidly breathe, like… like somebody held my mouth shut to… asphyxiate. My heart pounds up to my throat. The thumping reaches the tip of my tongue. I can hear the fast rushing flow of my blood inside my ear. The swish sounds like a plunge into a wild river. My heart knocks harshly against the bones of my chest. Adrenalized by a rewind, Dr. Jacoby raises the alarm and calls for a nurse.

My vision smears… I’ve been to slow with the rewind. Dammit, I can’t quite get a clearer mind. My limbs twitch, as if I’m fighting against suffocation. My eyes catch every detail out of the room like an autist would perceive his surroundings. Although the blazing light makes my eyes squint. I should’ve closed the book before rewinding. Now, my nose bleeds a little river which courses over my mouth. I can feel Chloe’s hair on my chest again – her head, too. My heart smashes against the chest with her phantom imprint on top.

I don’t want this pseudo feeling, every time I face a horrifying event. Michael enters my room fast and grabs my shoulders to get my body under some control. A tremendous seizure. I can’t calm down… can’t slow down my body, on my own.

Michael’s soft and warm hands are great to feel along my shoulders. Yet, I can’t stop slashing around, because every inch of the limbs shakes like crazy. An electricity in the Caulfield’s-Mind. “I knew, giving an empty writable book to an unstable patient – who’s obsessed by her past – isn’t the most sensible idea,” Doctor Jacoby loudly talks to himself while reentering my sickroom with a syringe in his hands. My entire body is filled with adrenaline. I hope the dose won’t kick me back to 2013. He approaches my fidgeting body. Michael looks severely stressed, yet, he’s trying to retain his benign manner. Although I watch his struggle he keeps up a mellow smile. Yeah, that’s me, you’ll have to struggle if you want to tolerate my mind.

“No, no, not the syringe, no, please!” I’m begging the doctor, since there’s so much more to explore before delving back into 2013, again. He seems to ignore my wish and pushes the needle into the backside of my neck.

I feel the syringe injecting sedative into my neck, my throat. My muscle burns and aches, as the needle pushes through the tensed fibers. It hurts even more than a fresh bruise. After the injection, all limbs relax gradually. My tensed head rolls to the left side of my pillow, allowing me to look out of the window. Sigh! Can’t look outside. The white glow reminds me of the disguise while time travelling. It’s too blazing outside, I can’t watch out. The sounds of my surroundings become dead. Anything sounds like underwater, like a mute dream that you can’t escape. The last thing I hear, is the doc talking to Michael, “My, my, that was a strong dose. We can’t repeat this over and over…”

He’s utterly right. I’ll go back to the shitty timeline and do cushy-cozy things to replenish the mental condition of the “here and now”. Maybe I’ll come back to 2015 and all this has never happened. But I’ll have to find answers, too. It’s gonna be a bloaty messy second day. Tuesday, I assume.

“I’m proud of you Max. Hang in there!” Michael encourages, albeit I’m losing consciousness. My jaw opens, since I lost all control over my body. All parts of my body set in their typical prickling that you feel, when you’re being anaesthetized. I’m devoured by darkness… I can neither hear a sound nor feel something, except, the decelerating rate of my weakened heart beneath my thin chest – the everlasting phantom pain, likewise.

\--------

The sound of a bell rings…

\--------

I see nothing. Water splashes around me. I’m lying in warm sand. Relaxation… a pretty whistle. Marvelous! Whose lips hit the tones this perfectly? My eyes open… I regard the sky – a swarm of birds crosses my line of sight. A black brush flying across the sky, giving it a beautiful contrast. Changing shape and velocity as the wind spins them. I could watch this going forever. Chloe’s voice is present. She giggles, while I’m still watching the sky. She’s presumably splashing on the washing up water. Where are we? A river, a waterfall, the sea… in heaven? I’m tired. I forgot that every bridge between 2015 and 2013 is seamless, resulting in insomnia. Yuck, my head feels like it had been torn off of my shoulders. I had had thoughts about a mental enema once, right?

A music-track increases in volume. The melodies of the whistle cross the orchestra in my right ear beautifully. A xylophone plucks, resounds in my head and meticulously purges all the horror which I have undergone before. My right arm rubs against skin. I briefly startle, but after turning my head to the right, I ogle her beauty; Chloe. I’m back to the right place. She’s got her red hair back. I win… this time. With her feet, she pats the recurrent washing up water. We’re at the sea. The tide is reaching our legs.

Nature, freedom, peace. This song is awesome. I bend my wrist, since I’ve grasped the mp3-player in my right palm. On the blueish-glowing display, I read “Mother Nature - Mind Tree.” No contradiction, at all. I love everything about this moment. Chloe’s hand gently holding my arm, stroking with her fingertips which tickles me a bit. I feel my small gap between ulna and radius, while she pets my arm. Sigh, I can’t change my severe state of leanness. Anyhow, I’ve got no problem in staying here together with Chloe. All serene. I broke the rules. Therefore, I can do, whatever I please to improve the mentally anguished condition of my future clone.

“After you’ve passed out, the sun has risen up again. It was like a time lapse montage,” Chloe talks to me. In the meantime, she plays with both her hands in the air. Pretending to toy with the clouds because they are so big and wide. She moves her head to rhythm and deeply looks into my eyes, while she keeps up a magnetic smile, “aaaaaaand at the same time, you teleported us here. You hella saved my life today. It’s great with you on my side, old companion. Thank you!” she continues. I can barely speak, but after a first hiccup I ask, “What… time is it?” – “Twelve pm, Max,” she laughs at me.

I could just kiss her… maybe later. Great to be back. But hey, doesn’t 12pm mean, it’s before Jefferson’s class? I’ve really ‘hella’ broke the rules. Chloe whistles along with the melodies of “Mother Nature”. First, I heard her awesome singing and now she whistles beautifully, too. Didn’t lie, when I assured, I’d be head over heels in love with her… And if I was completely blind in an alternate reality, I’d still remember her beauty. Well, enough exaggerations!

“You wanna stay here and enjoy the sun?” Chloe asks me. Behind us, I hear children laughing. They are riding their bikes. The chains of the bikes click, the spokes buzz. All while they are talking about their worriless lives. If they would even know… “We can also stroll to the swings,” Chloe suggests. What swings? Never mind, if I conjured up swings, that’d be way better than a non-given character – the German dude for instance. “Max, you listening?” Chloe chuckles. “This is so pristine. So wonderful. The ocean, water crashing against the sturdy rocks. Time isn’t like a river, it’s a wild ocean… a wild sea which devours its environment…,” I babble while looking back up to the sky.

“You’ve swallowed one of the letters, haven’t you?” she asks during bursting into laughter. “Speaking of which, you haven’t given _the letter_ to me, yet,” I ask her about it. “Wanna follow me? Let’s get on with it!” Chloe invites me. “Where to?”  I ask. “Swings!” she says while getting up and removing the grainy sand from her jeans. “C’mon slowpoke!” she screams and leaves the mp3-player on the ground. Nice... I assume, she wants me to keep the music-player. Yeah, it actually would be great to find out about her changed taste in music. Although the look of her room in the Prices’ remained similar, I think she found other songs on her way but she remained the furious lonely gal, that we all loved. We? Who else could I talk to? Forget it!

We’ve been lying on my jacket when I was away. Nice, now it’s sandy and quite dirty. Suits my situation. Chloe leaves. A mild gust of wind lets her hair flutter in the air. The afternoon’s sun tints the shore orangish. Complementary to my nightmares… and the sky. I see the dunes of sand. They’re all roundly shaped and make this look perfect. All this, it sparks hope… I’ve got goosebumps all over. Finally, some room to breathe. Somebody should come here and paint this scenic place. I’d love to take a photo of this magnificent view. Seeing Chloe walking away with her feet digging deeply inside the soft and warm sand, would turn this composition into a masterpiece. I can see the parking where Frank was selling his drugs. No RV there, either. Sad memories. Why did she shoot him? Damn!

Nevertheless, he’s evidently hale and happy together with Rachel, At least it’s what Chloe has told me. And now I’m the brat who’s cheering up her life. I’ve been making a smidgen of progress only. I jump back one track on the music-player. I want to listen to “Mother Nature”, again. Oh, yes! Water flows… the water crashes against the rocks… Up and down, just like our breath. The whistle, such a great component within this song. The strings start their first chord. I can’t wait until the xylophone starts its melody. I should get ahead, Chloe’s a little farther down the shore.

Chloe turns around, the hair fluttering in the soft wind. She’s waving at me. I smile since I’m sensing the trust growing between us both. But not only that. She wants to play, invites me to catch her. I’ll chase her. She turns around, laughs and runs away. We are little kids. Tagging each other somewhere in the dunes. Big clouds of sand rise up, for we are heavily stomping footprints throughout the shore. I follow her through the dunes. Their curvature aligns with the shape of Chloe’s body perfectly. She could run away forever and I’ll find her eventually. We’re chasing each other in large circles. The sand, rising up in the air glimmers and is carried away by the winds. They are formed, twisted and bended by the winds into magnificent particle clouds. Seems as though God was using the winds as a paintbrush. We both must watch out not to inhale the particles. So, we have to breathe in a controlled manner. Playing tag with some extra rules on shore, where nobody can see us.

As if mother nature really enjoys our stay at the beach and separates us from the rest of the world. There’s nobody who could disturb us. We could do anything what we’d liked to without anyone spotting us. Chloe is fast. Well trained calves she has, while the rest of her body is pretty lean. Christ, I could use some water after this race and some more practice for the future… for prosperity. Behind the very last dune, I spot the blurry burning outlines of the swings, Chloe has obviously been talking those. They’re hanging there stroked by the winds of the ocean, as if two ghosts are swinging on them. The song has carried me along while we’ve been playing our _sophisticated_ hide and seek game. Chloe repeats the whistle. Almost in sync with the song itself. I can’t believe it! Whatever this day becomes, it’ll be great for mental sanity. Futureproof so to speak… I’ll find a better definition for this, later on.

It’s breaking my heart to realize, that I am the one whose hands are ensanguined. In all honesty, I am the creator of this solid reality. Whenever something gruesome happens it’s gonna to be my fault. Seeing Chloe running away from me reminds me of a painful metaphor. Think about these dunes as if they were a wasteland amid pouring rain. As opposed to Chloe’s laugh, it’s a cry. A far cry in the desert of horrors. Where the hell are my thoughts wandering? Where’s my mind? Hey, wake up, Max! You’re not supposed to think about this crap. Muse or ponder on how to cure the life of your best friend!

Chloe has already taken the left swing and sways with the wind. I accompany her. A gentle swinging while her feet brush and toss the sand. Little clouds around her feet grow. So, soft, it could be powdersnow. Orangish powdersnow. Oh, I wonder how she’d look like in a winter outfit. Lovely I’m dead serious.

I turn the music-player off and cram it back in… _her_ bag. Where’s mine? Where is my diary? Chloe grabs the bag out of my grip. “Thanks, Supermax,” she exaggerates. I missed the names, she always gave me. Time to go back to its roots. She’s searching for something in her bag. I never knew about a bag, she was carrying. Basically, it was I, who had the only bag. Camera, diary, old school pencil case and other trash flying around in there. Her bag is also battered and worn off, like mine. Be that as it may, she hands me an unopened envelope.

I’m aware, that it could destroy me. At the same time, I’ll subsequently learn more about this lurid dimension. Before I can grab the letter, she hesitates a bit and moves the envelope behind her back, out of my reach. She’s currently thinking about something important and closes her eyes to concentrate. I utter sigh because of this. I thought, she can trust me with this. But she says, “Tell me, it’s _you_ , who wrote all those letter,” I’m certain enough to answer her, “I wrote all of them, I swear.”

At once, I notice that in my first procedure in 2013 I hit the fire alarm switch to rescue her… and now, I made quite an effort. Hell, if she’d ever known. Well, in fact, she knows, but, she knows a beautiful lie, nonetheless. After the fire alarm event, she was glad to see the polaroid of the blue butterfly, and now I had written a novel for her sake. And I don’t know whether I’m lying or saying the truth, as I answered with, “I wrote them, I swear”. Normally I would rewind, if I still had my base powers. Henceforth decisions are harder to make. Only pulse if totally necessary!

Fathoming all this shit makes me sad. Luckily, my eyes won’t water. This moment is too positive. Chloe hesitates, but then, she slowly reaches out her hand. I pick the letter, and she releases her fingers. I open it without missing a beat. “Don’t tell me, what’s written in there, Max. Please,” she begs me with her eyes shut tightly. Okay, let’s unfold this sinister message by me – to me. Chloe stares to the ground, swaying… the powder sand rustles around her feet.

“Addressed to Alt-Max: 

The red miracle,

dear Max, whenever you might read this letter, you are in big fucking trouble. It means, Chloe trusts you. You must not change things according to your emotions! For I managed to tell the story about Rachel and she, Chloe had had a reason to go on living. Believe me, as I tell you that Chloe committed suicide, no matter how hard I – You – tried to change the past. Certain polaroid images became unstable the more I had used them. I hope you never went through one of them, because I had to endure a ginormous amount of them. Trust me, if I had written the story in letterform, containing Max and Chloe, she would most definitely have been deceased, already.

You are the fury, you are the hatred of her life. She had to forget you. That’s why it’s Rachel. Chloe had to confide in another person who can soothe her pain and finally her life. Rachel was this significant other, mind you, but, you were never supposed to be that special person! Somehow, Rachel always disappeared and I stranded in an asylum, afterwards. If you, Maxine Caulfield, is currently reading this, it will mean, that a clone-personality had successfully left a time fragment. Those time fragments basically open and close since their timeline is corrupted. They don’t contain a fruitful reality. After entering them I was capable of leaving without genuinely changing things because I was unable to use my time rewind powers. Time fragments are virtually an in- and endpoint, which are unescapable. If you – Me – is reading this, means that there is a chance of a major change.

Despite my thousands of attempts to change 2013 to the better, I totally lost track of the current situation. It seems like, the more I had changed, the sturdier the solidity had rendered the past. If you can change her life to the better, go for it. If your life ever had a purpose, including your gift, you’d better show how hard Chloe Price deserves unconditional love.

If you sense the terminal, it’s too late!

And before I forget,  
at least **try** to love her! Have the courage to soothe your woes…

  
Max C.”

I… need… a glass of water. Now! Whoa, my head. She… I wrote front and backside till the very edge of the parchment with dark red ink. It seems as though I had never accepted the ‘what if’-question. Without rewind-powers, Nathan would’ve just shot her. She’d have bled out, and then I’d have found out, that it was Chloe, without having any clue. A clue about all the ‘what if’-questions. So, if there was a purpose, I’d save her, as long as I can. Even if I’m going blind, I’ll still love her with all my remaining senses. Her beauty stays tactile. I believe in time. Everything is possible. And only I can see the ‘what-if’.

Chloe looks at me again, I concurrently fold the parchment back into the envelope. The sea’s horizon looks straight and calm. “So?” Chloe wonders a bit concerned… so am I. The reason is simple. I’m _not_ the Real-Max. I am a clone, who’s doing mischief, by design. If the real Max only knew, how I worked it out… that I fled out of the time fragment. The trial ‘n error… it’s so drear. “So?” she repeats a tad whimper-ish. I won’t tell her my thoughts about this letter but I say, “Love you…” and I excluded the word ‘I’, on purpose. I should’ve said, “ _We_ love you…” but I think Chloe wouldn’t understand.

Now, it’s us both, staring at the calm sea. Quietly surging, surreptitiously changing tides, bearing thousands of lives in its countless billions of gallons of water. Huh, just like my braincells, which are addicted. Addicted to... an immortal energy. Jesus, I’m a new discovered hormone in my next life. The drive, the force which keeps you alive to change things. Oh, I forgot, we call it ‘heart’ in common sense. This world is lacking those. Chloe could’ve needed a person like Michael… but it’s me in the psychiatry who’s lucky to see him every day.

Guess, I was not strong enough to end my life, the easy way. I’m very sure that I had tried to commit suicide after all of my failed attempts to save the world. “I know this feeling. I can read your face,” Chloe says almost mesmerized. “I once stood in front of my bathroom mirror… saw my face and wished, I could end it. Me.” this is getting too depressing again. Though, everything I wrote to myself is true. “Y’know, you are so old-school with the parchment, the letters, the photographs and such. It’s a blast seeing somebody like you being focused on reality instead of cellphones…” she says. At once, she’s in a wonderful mood. Reality… I hope she won’t force me to talk about realities. My special kinds of realities that I had to face. I must talk about 2015. There’s no way around. She must - at least - know something about my current condition.

“You’re not your own threat anymore, are you?” I anxiously ask her after a short break. “I’m a creature… made out of sand... I could crumble any minute…,” Chloe answers. Sounds like a quote from my letters, which I can’t remember to have ever written. “I’d kill myself to pull you out of your misery,” I say assert. “As long as I’m not _dwindling_ down into misery again… C’mon, Max. Let’s get back home,” she gets up and leaves the swing. She’s heading back to her truck. The chains of the swings squeak. Chloe parked her truck where Frank’s RV had also been parking some time ago, at some point.

I wonder how she got her truck back here, “Chloe, wasn’t your truck parked at home?” – “You rewound time, Witch Caulfield. I was on shore, _today_. So, it makes perfect sense, that my truck is parked right here,” she solves the puzzle. Well, I’m not _rewinding_ , anymore. I’ll have to explain her, that things have shifted. Chloe waits for me. Opening her hand, she waits for me to walk hand in hand with her. Back on the boardwalk, I turn around to regard our sandy footprints on the stony boardwalk. Fortunately, no wheelchair’s tracks. Ouch! Some steps hurt a bit. The heat has soaked deeply inside the tarmac and hurts my feet. We are both barefoot. I think, Chloe deposited the shoes in her car. Half dancing, I’m avoiding the burning heat. Chloe giggles as she sees my weird dance.

The noise of the ocean has a calming effect. Or is it her warm hand, holding mine? It’s beautiful, one way or another. Her thin fingers, softly stroking across my knuckle. I wish for a tattoo on my left arm, that meshes with hers when we walk hand in hand. A matchless representation of our deep connection. Reaching her truck, I can already find my bag lying in the footwell and… no, in all seriousness my own crusted blood, likewise. I can’t believe it’s still there. It’s 12pm, and yet it kept sticking on the interior wall of the truck?

“Chloe, I can’t get in there,” I tell her frightened. “What’s the matter, now? You mean the stains of… why?” she wonders, placing her buttocks on the driver seat in the meantime. “I can’t enter,” I refuse. “Max, I’ve never shot you, for real. But now you’re losing it like a little crybaby?” – “Get the revolver off my face!” I order her. “Are you… well, fuck this!” she curses while opening her bag hectically. Deep inside, she grabs it, pulls out the gun, tosses it over to the sand dunes. A small cloud of sand particles arises and sparkles in mid-air. The gleamy gun is slowly absorbed by the dune. The dark metal turns in an orangish gray, as the sand rolls above the barrel and finally the rest of the gun. Hope I’ll never see any weapons in this reality ever again. I deserve gunpoint, nonetheless…

I must get in her car. Okay Max, don’t hurl! Just get in and think, it had never happened. I see my dried, red blood incrusted on the seat and the interior of the wall. I assume, I wouldn’t have survived the shot without powers. Then it would be _tough luck_ or what? First, it has always been Chloe, who was endangered. Now me? Let’s think, that, no!

I’m in. Try to relax and blow the cobwebs away. She didn’t want to shoot you… Is this an appropriate revenge? The revenge for the shot in her stomach on the junkyard? But I did rewind, right? I want my normal rewind powers back… Pulsing through time and space is not my taste. I see Chloe looking at me. I guess, she wants to get the inner struggle off my mind. A chain of thought which came out of hell.

“What happens in a time fragment, Max?” she tries to distract me by asking about the tricky realities. “Things, you can’t imagine and… you couldn’t understand,” I reply after a short break. I’m ignoring my blood paints as best as I can. “Believe me… I read a ton of you. So, ‘things that I couldn’t understand’ means, ‘things that make you freak?” she almost talks to herself, yet looking at me. Meanwhile I’m searching for the seatbelt. Ah right, here we… stains on the strap. Christ, I’m such a hopeless loser, “Freak out – Sounds right,” I say during buckling up with a brief look at the door, which is covered in my blood, that had actually never left my arm. I’m surrounded by an alternate fate. Bleeding out in her car. I should’ve stayed, she would’ve gotten out and searched for help. And I would have never been teleported back to my dorm room.

“Let’s get back home,” she finishes. The engine starts. Yeah, let’s go back, like always, shall we? Chloe turns the radio on. The song is well known. “I know this one. It’s ‘Don’t Stay Here’,” I’m impressed that she also knows the song. “One of my all-time favorites. Nice - you know them?” she wants to know. “Can we… maybe skip this song… to ‘Mother Nature’ or so, please? Can’t stand melancholic songs, at the moment,” I beg her, but also… lying. I can’t tell her about the first time fragment I was going through. Chloe skips songs until ‘Mother Nature’ appears on the blueish glowing display of her ancient radio. “Sure thing. Hey, the selection was unintentional, okay?” Chloe reacts a little pissed off. She’s the same. Adorable. I love her so much.

She’s allowed to say ‘unintentional’ but not I. Everything had and has its consequences. I would’ve never agreed to any excuses such as ‘unintentional’ or ‘by mistake’, if I had judged my chosen decisions. Nevertheless, it’s my fault, no matter what I had made out of this reality. So, I’ll fix the rest and then, I should… go. Fade away and something like that. It would be better for her – us – us all.

“You ever mused about the song’s intention?” I want to find out, however. “Which one?” she asks a little nervous. “Don stay here,” – “Sure. This song… is a distinct message, to… go. Getaway, not looking back… looking back to your past,” she answers me instantly, takes a deep breath and goes on, “Luck will always show you the fucking middle finger. But, if you think - you’re relying on luck - you instinctively look back. You, at your current state, _you_ look and live backwards. What you should never do. But as fast as you’ve left the past, it will catch you again, no doubt. Don’t stay in your misery’s grip. Try something anew or get the fuck away, if it doesn’t work... -- Get the hell out of Bigfoot-Ville,” wow, she gave some thoughts to this song. I’m afraid, ‘Mother Nature’ can’t brighten up our down dragging mood. Chloe’s thoughts are somewhat plain and somewhere… true. Silence. And hey, the xylophone brightens up the mood on the contrary. Chloe starts smiling. I’m a… _good_ influence on her.

“Ever heard the entire song?” she wants to know, now. I don’t really know, because the fact that I had fucking killed her before that was all I really cared about. The song sure wasn’t really distracting me, it only intensified my emotions. Have I ever listened to the end? Chloe suddenly speaks, “After five minutes and a half – or so – I mostly cry. It always sends the chills down my spine… the old anxiety about losing control” Huh, I think I don’t need to add anything to this.

However, her thoughts are clearly very interesting. Living backwards during our lives want to go on and proceed. A time-based juxtaposition. If your head goes one direction and your life the other… you’ll be torn apart eventually. Weighing down thoughts again, Max! Get rid of those! The street in front of us forks off and Chloe stays on the right to get back to the residential district. She keeps up her smile. What a view… a sight for sore eyes. I figure, my sanity is more important than ever. Don’t stay here… don’t stay here… “Hey, wake up Max Shakespeare,” Chloe pokes my shoulder. “Don’t compare me with that guy,” I try to find my way back to consciousness. Where has my head been? The sun kisses my tired eyes through the windshield. What a relief. More of this, please!

We’re turning into her street. Parking in front of the garage almost gives me a nostalgic effect. “I think you want to talk to my mother first, right?” Chloe wants to know. “How? I thought I turned back time to…to…,” I try to correct her. “She starts her work at 2pm,” she answers. “It seems likely that you have totally lost feeling about space and time, Max Crackfield? Is this the double-moon theory from your soul-stirring story? Haha,” laughing at the end. Max Crackfield… I heard this before. “Guess I know, what she’s up to, when we get in.” Chloe continues. I see the trail of my blood. “Chloe wait!” I kill her bright mood and say, “My blood is still here, too… how can it be?” Chloe startles, “Max, we should walk in and tell Joyce, you nose bled too strongly,” is her stupid idea. “We can’t Chloe… this is a sign. She will forget and she probably already forgot the fight with you at the diner. Because it actually never happened. She will forget everything. Anybody but **you**. You somehow… are not afflicted. But **she** will forget!” I try to explain myself.

Deep inside of my brain, all those thoughts hurt while thinking. “Gimme your phone number. Chloe… just in case, we get separated. We’ve got a tough week ahead of us,” I ask and command her at the same time. She takes out her mobile and shows her number. As I’m done, she suggests, “You want your answers, go get them and then… bail out to our windmill, okay Smartass? I’ll wait in my truck and hit the alarm, if stepprick shows up!” I just nod and enter the Prices’ house. Chloe’s cellphone vibrates and she fast reacts, “Speaking of the devil… he has just contacted me. Asshole…” I stand before the front door of their house. I glance up and realize, that _nothing_ else had somehow changed since. “Catch!” Chloe screams. I look back to her and spot in sunlight glinting keys, in mid-air. “We’ll practice later, young student,” is her dumb comment, because I’ve facepalmed me instead of catching the keys.

After picking them up and unlocking the Price’s front door, a nostalgic feeling rises inside my gut. Oh, this sweet scent. I’m glad to be back here. And… I’d be damned! Chloe wasn’t lying, when she said I bled a trail up to her room. Gosh my nose is such a nightmare. Well, I get what I deserve for being nosy… ugh, that was the worst joke ever. Focus on the essential stuff. I hear Joyce preparing a meal. I think she waits for Chloe. Oh my, if Joyce only knows how her daughter really feels. The dishes clanks, the meal sizzles and fries in the pan. I’m already getting hungry. I whiz my head through the doorway into the kitchen and try to surprise Joyce. But she has already heard the door and spots me with her bright eyes.

“And there she is… a lovely young woman,” Joyce smiles at me. She’s having a glimpse while preparing herself a meal. “Hi… Joyce, I’m sorry for breaking into your house without putting a mask on,” I greet her back. “My husband wouldn’t appreciate that…” meanwhile I look at the fridge. ‘Toilet paper’ is underlined twice. Love to the detail… Joyce turns around. “Oh – for one moment I’ve thought you are Rachel,” she’s worried. Joyce is still the same pretty.

“I almost overlooked your face in these clothes… Go, have a seat, Max. Where’s Chloe? I expected this surprise teamed up with her,” it’s odd that she’s welcoming me like… so… very kind. After all, what she should know about me via David… Christ, I’ve just realized that I haven’t thought about my parents for an eternity. I’m so alone in 2015. Where are they? I hope the psychiatry is just a bad dream world that I can escape sooner or later… Maybe it’s a world which isn’t true. Don’t believe everything when you’ve already lost your mind, right?

“It’s good seeing you again Joyce,” I tell her while sitting down. “Max Caulfield, are you the unknown threat, that made my husband a little… oh my, you are deadly pale. Child, you look ill. What happened?” Joyce is sorely shocked. She turns off all hotplates in the kitchen and joins me on the left side of the dining table, in a hurry. The old wooden seat creaks and crackles as she’s sitting down. “You are a skeleton… is there anything I can do for your?” she comforts me and lays her left hand on mine while her right arm pets my back. What’s she worrying about? She never behaved like this. Especially not to me. I’m thinking about Chloe, waiting in her truck, guarding me. I hope she’s not feeling alone, right now. She obviously doesn’t want to be present when Joyce reacts to my question about William. That’s the next strange thing… it had to be horrible what I had done. Mind you, Joyce behaves like a wise old woman who forgives everybody for anything.

I turn around, because I have the feeling that something is missing in the living room. And there sure is something. The couch. Where have they moved that old wreck. Had it sunken under the blue carpet’s depths. I’m very sure Chloe wouldn’t survive to see this thing being thrown away. The fat stain from the wine has remained. Are there still some memories allowed to be intact? I turn my head back and talk to Joyce,

“Joyce, thanks for the… nice words, but, I must find out something,” I start the question. Joyce walks around the table and takes a seat on the other side. “Anything… oh man… first, my daughter and now, her old… friend, too.” she talks to herself. I continue my thought, “What did I fu… mess up five years, ago? What happened to…?” Joyce’s eyes glimmer in the diffuse light through the window. I can’t say his name. Joyce doesn’t need to explain her pain to me. I can feel it in my bones, all at once. But I say his name half asphyxiating because I’m about to… cry “…Will… William?”

She leans back and draws a deep breath. I snuffle. This time it’s not blood, it’s just my nose getting wet. Joyce closes her eyes and struggles to find words. Is she fighting? If even she starts struggling against tears or her own emotions, I really must’ve fucked up. She’s a strong woman and I had clearly broken her. “Max, are you there? **Max** … are you…,” the chair creaks and falls over. Steps approach. Joyce wants to avoid the inevitable. I hear my head crashing down on the table. For one moment, my temple hurts but it stops promptly. I perceive the sound of a thunder, rain… I can’t see straight… No, no, no, no, no, no -- …I’m falling… moving somewhere else within this intricate universe.

\--------

I heard the chime of a bell. I’ve been teleported somewhere outside where it’s colder than my heart.

\--------

The tarmac was underneath my face. Dank and rough while the rain crashed his thick needles on my carcass. That’s how my body felt when I was lying on the street. The tornado howled, rain kept dousing on my body. The thick layer of water felt like a tattoo on my skin. As I tilted my head, the water left my neck. The water-made tattoo flew on the tarmac. I was on a street, somewhere near the bus stop. The bus stop a few blocks away from the Prices’ home. As I stood up, the street was empty, ravaged, no soul around. Trees bended in the claws of the wind. The hurricane growled unto the town… and I was the only left soul there. Everybody fled – vanished. If I had had a heart, I could’ve felt adrenaline rushing through my veins to keep me alive. But it sensed like it wasn’t.

The rain kept hammering on my skull. The longer I stood on the street the more drenched my clothes became. I wore… Chloe’s clothes? What the hell? How do they fit my body? I’m only like five foot four. How could it be? I heard a noise to my left. The door of a wrecked car squeaked with the wind. Swarms of raindrops kept smashing on my body and flowed upwards caused by the strength of the wind. I couldn’t stand this… I had to get away.

Seeing my right, untattooed arm was a helpful indication, that I didn’t switch bodies. My Caulfield’s Mind was inside me - Max. I saw the tremendous tornado hovering towards the street, one or two blocks ahead. I had to go back to Chloe’s house. I was, I was… no. I was back inside a time fragment, I had finally realized. I’m encaged, I assumed. Shit! Why? Hadn’t I experienced the last one just a few hours, ago – on top of the dorms? Remind yourself of your future words, Max! Try to **not** kill her!

This nightmare - I mean time fragment - appeared to be different. While the very first one was desaturated and gray, this one had a blueish look. The time fragment which I had entered by focusing a polaroid image was… I can’t remember. I ran down the street. I knew that place inside out, which made me sad. The sharp electricity in the air filled my lungs with its ice-cold air and stitching needles. The rain entered my mouth and left through my underlip again. It was so damn cold outside it made my lips shrivel while the cold rain tore them up. I didn’t want to stay. My body shook and shivered. The puddles underneath my feet splashed water on my body as I was running down the street. I had no bag with me, nor was there anything else, that I had carried with me. I turned into Chloe’s street. Cedar Avenue 44 - a place with a shit ton of heartbreaking memories.

I saw a girl running away from me. She was a ghost or anything alike. Among that thick mist, the shape of her body reminded me of the silhouettes just like that ghosts from the shore which were talking to each other. The blue steam of water particles flogged my face and it burnt like fire. You might compare that happening with a thick layer of ice under your tissue that slowly starts to hurt more and more by growing bigger and bigger. There’s a certain threshold where the burn of coldness was akin to hot fire. That time, it felt like somebody smashed his fury into my face. Deserved, Max - For all yer deeds.

For the water hurt my eyes too much, I stared to the ground and carried on instead. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to follow the other girl with my view. I had to stare to the ground to prevent my eyes from being hurt by the rain. My lungs burnt the same as my calves did. I couldn’t catch up with the ghost before me. I was yet the same slow. The ghost was too fast on the other side.

It also reached the house. The wind screeched across my ears and shouted even louder, as I was running. I reached the Prices’ house. The tornado approached the street and tattered the first houses. At the far distance, I spotted a nail which flew towards me. I tried to avoid it, but those winds had to take a strong turn. The nail hit my left arm. Shit ouch! Blood instantly flowed out of my arm, the same spot where Chloe once hit me. Thanks for the reminder you fucking monster!

I raised my right hand to rewind time. Damn, it was slow. I could feel the nail disentangling itself out of my flesh and finally leaving my arm, the fibers of my muscle slowly grew back together while the rewind moved the world in a backwards motion. The tornado twitched and jiggled, with optically undefinable artifacts. Just like the dagger’s gruesome powers. I stopped the rewind.

I immediately stepped far away that time. The nail flew past me and thrusted into the entrance door. The rapid shot of the nail drew a straight visible line through the rain. I felt the water being soaked up by my hair. In my field of vision, raindrops left imbibed streaks. They fell on the ground more and more rapidly. The heavy and thin crumpled cloth on my skin lay like a cold soggy tattoo on my limbs. The rain was cruel and restless. I opened the door to the Prices’ family to face the next shock.

Everything around the house seemed to be similar to the alternate dimension in which Chloe was disabled down from her neck. Oh, my God, please no! I hoped she’d be fine. Standing in front of her house, which looked alike the house out of the alternate reality, confirmed my assumption to be inside a time fragment. The mere fact, that I saw a girl running away from me, intersected with those moments I had experienced on the shore. There on shore, two girls were walking away from me… the ghosts… the silhouettes. Obviously, the paralyzed Chloe and I. Nonetheless the amnesia back there was frightfully new to me. Didn’t want to undergo such bullshit again. The wind behind the door had such a strong pull that it sucked on my back. It wanted me to be sucked back on the street and then up into the tornado’s maw.

The door slammed shut, since the storm conjured a strong current out of the street. All streets around the block became pulsing veins. Lights flickered inside the Price’s house. Everything shook and quivered like a sinking boat. Cars flew through the air like tiny ripped pieces of paper, trash shot against the walls of houses and put holes everywhere. The asphalt broke loose and was caught up in the whirlwind. Anything would be gone and decay in the next minute, so I had to hurry. I saw the trail of blood moving up the stairs. Holes in the house emerged as the tornado’s undertow sucked everything inside its jaws. The howling reminded me of the ugly scream which the dagger resounded above Chloe and me at the lighthouse. Oh shit. Its strong undertow was too hard. The house tore into pieces, furniture flew up like small particles to the spin of death. I couldn’t keep it that way. I had to rewind.

I raised my hand to reverse the spin. Particles, pieces, life got spit out of the tornado’s gorge. I rebuilt the Prices’ house with my horrifying abilities. The disgusting pressure on my hand brought the life back into Arcadia Bay. I didn’t know how many people I had revived as I was turning back time for a few seconds. Is it selfish to use those powers just to save _one_ of them? I couldn’t imagine my life without powers, anymore. My entire way of thinking had changed and turned darker.

During that rewind, my trail of blood glowed the same as the text on my skin in the psychiatry. Weird, back there my arm glowed because I’d written on my skin. And there - in Chloe’s house - my blood shined brightly with sharp rays. Would this trail lead me somewhere? The ghost - I hadn’t been able to follow - surpasses me. This ghost winced and cried, as another ghost in a wheelchair approached the front door. “I can’t stay here,” were my only thoughts. I couldn’t think poetically when a hurricane killed all life out of Arcadia Bay. The only strange thing there was, that Williams ghost was missing. I’m sure those ghosts were sole representations of other altered realities. I headed to the stairway to get up into Chloe’s room.

Rushing up the stairs, I felt the despair growing in my mind. It made me sick and my eyes shed some tears on my way up… don’t lie to yourself Max. They were rivers of tears. I found the door to her room blindly. Smashing the door open, I saw Chloe waiting in front of a vintage oval mirror facing with her back to me. She was holding a dagger. Finally, it was she, whose goal was to finish me off? There couldn’t be a better place to murder me. In her arms. I could feel my sore throat again. The typical ache, that occurred whenever I felt deepest grief.

I heard somebody shouting from downstairs, “Honey, I’m back! Honey? Where are you? Chloe… Chloe? Imma count to three!” I remembered this voice. There was only one person possible who’d speak that way. “Max?” Chloe lowered the dagger’s blade to the ground, yet, held the hilt tightly in her right hand. Above her self-written words on the wall, there stuck a polaroid image on the wall. What was that? “One… two…,” the voice counted up, while footsteps were going up the stairs. I was more and more sure that it was William. What the fuck was he doing in that time fragment?

I made a step towards Chloe’s end of her bed. I saw her insecure reaction, she was inclined to kill me, wasn’t she? I leaned forward to contemplate the image, she’d put on the wall. It was the photograph of a sunset. It was like an inferno. A fire on a skewed even layer of water. That burning horizon tinted the water orangish. The sun melted inside the seemingly endless layer of water. Around the focused area there was a black vignette. Almost as if somebody had put a photo filter on top of the lens of the camera. The polaroid briefly flashed into my eyes. I presumed, that I focused the image too much. Who’da thunk’ed, I’d be able to focus within a corrupted even like that?

To be honest, it was a beautifully captured moment and reminded me of my wall o’ photos. There just had to be more of those on the wall to make it perfect. Did Chloe take that picture? Never thought, she was so talented in photography. Her hair was blue there. This was a… an indication… a sign. I was inside a time fragment, for real. Chloe however, she wore her own clothes, as she always did. I glimpsed down, just to face Rachel’s clothes on my body, that time. What the hell? “Okay Max, don’t freak”, I thought. Instead of scrutinizing the logical sense of those self-built fucked-up realities, I should definitely do the right things, if at all possible. Better than messing with things or – worse – destroying them. Keep a head level.

I sighted the mirrors reflection. The world inside was calm and shiny, bright and welcoming. Sigh, I wish I was back there again. In the abundant mirror’s reflection, Chloe’s hair was red and I wasn’t standing in the doorway. I wasn’t there at all. I saw my other own ghost embracing another ghost at the desk. Definitely, here were alternate realities molten together. The _real_ , distinguishable Chloe with the dagger in her palm opened her mouth. Guess, she saw something that had fascinated her. As I turned around, I was totally bowled over.

William said, “…hah, three. Chloe my angel, why don’t you join us down and have some breakfast?” I fell down to Chloe’s bed. Still tried to hold balance on my buttocks. That was way too much. What next? What could’ve also possibly happened there? “Dad…?” Chloe slowly approached him, yet, holding the dagger in her hand. “Haven’t I ever mentioned _‘don’t you toy with knifes_? They are dangerous, Chloe,” Chloe embraces him. No surprise, he stood there with widely opened arms. An undeniable invitation. A smile to die for. I observed everything through the mirror. Yeah, taking a look in the mirror seems to mean anything else in our regular world, though.

I heard the winds thumping its fists on the house. The tornado tore the house apart. It pulled the roof off the building first. Chloe and William kept hugging and seemed unaffected by the strong – end of the world – weather. I stood up from her bed and watched all bits and pieces being sucked up like a vacuum. William talks in Chloe’s shoulder, “I’m feeling so different today.” Story of my life, William. Both their hair fluttered in the wild winds of the hurricane. As I turned around to the tornado, I peeked through the giant hole in the wall and ceiling where – not long ago – the roof was tightly attached to. I spotted two glowing eyes inside of the gray tornado, before it finally tugged me. I tried to cling myself tight on her bed. Around the gruesome spin, there were two ginormous swarms. They looked like arms. No, they were… wings. Tremendous wings, that fluttered up and down while it spun through Arcadia Bay.

“I could’ve left this hellhole, dad, but I wasn’t brave enough. I wanted to rescue… I’m such a failure…,” she whimpered in his tight hold. I had to rewind because otherwise the storm would’ve killed us any moment.

I raised my hand to rewind time once again. I wanted to go back. Far back to the past. As far as I could. I knew, I needed a lot of time to find out everything and finally escape this fragment. I reopened my eyes.

I saw Chloe in her fourteen-year-old body. So was I in my thirteen-year-old one. I instantly came toward her. In her room, we both were younger, but in her mirror, it shined and sparkled and we were five years older. With her fair hair fluttering in the storm, which didn’t appear within the ominous reflection. “Max?” Chloe asked me again, lowering the dagger. The way she said my name. Her voice is younger. Considering, I moved that catastrophe inside an alternate reality made me feel guilt. Bear in mind, that we were in a time fragment. I was about to leave it, sooner or later. Unfortunately, however, I didn’t know, when and where the time fragment would ever stop. Did I rewind too early? I went to Chloe. If this place bore a deeper meaning, it could possibly be, that I was designed to die. The Real-Max was right. It _is_ possible to leave a fragment without intentionally killing poor Chloe.

The polaroid image of the burning horizon was still stuck on the wall. “Can I take it?” I asked her pointing my finger at the wall. I couldn’t hold my voice any stable. “No that’s mine!” she reacts enraged. But then, she started smiling at me, took one big step toward me and embraced me like when we were kids. Child friendly. Hell, her old fragrance. Was it perfume or just the sweet scent of her clothes… the sweet scent of Chloe that she was always carrying with her? My hair bound to a ponytail, I felt it resting on my back. Suddenly, I noticed, it wasn’t my ponytail on my back. It was the cold metal of the dagger. At least she wasn’t stabbing me from behind. Why would _she_ do that, anyway?

“…Imma count to three!” William’s voice came into sharper relief. Chloe startled and stopped her embracing. “Do you hear the storm outside?” I ask her. She instantly became scared and dropped the knife. I took the opportunity to grab that sinister shiv. The tornado might swallow it. At the same time, I noticed that I wasn’t weak inside that fragment as in the first one that I had experienced. I wasn’t tranquilized and nothing made my legs feel unstable. But still, I felt something bad in my bones. Sigh, the first time fragment felt like it was a thousand years ago. Uptight she turned back to me. “We are younger?” her eyes watered a tad. As I saw myself in the mirror, I could also detect my bloodshot eyes of my older self… and how meager I had become. We were so much healthier in our youthhood.

“One… two…,” William counted up, while ascending the stairs. Chloe looked at me, without realizing that I picked the dagger up. I didn’t feel its ugly power, like I did in the first occurrence. I would toss the dagger away, as soon as the roof was about to be yanked off. William stood in Chloe’s doorway. He reacted like he always did. With his arms opened and an inviting smile. Didn’t he realize the room’s changed appearance of his daughter? Chloe put her arm around me and watched her reincarnated father standing before us.

William smiles all over his face, “Haha, the children are all ears, now or what?” inviting us to a hug. Chloe couldn’t help it but run into him, jumping-hugging him. She screamed, “I’m so sorry…,” she cried in his chest. During her embracement, she was on tiptoes to reach his height. I guessed, I was able to feel the hell she went through, after he had passed. We weren’t only younger, but also smaller and our voices childish.

The roof broke off. I used the situation to toss the dagger into this horrible powerful fluency. Neither William, nor Chloe seemed to be affected by the weather. The only thing that changed, was Chloe’s age and her… tiptoe standing position to embrace her actual dead father. Was this horrible entity really my own mind, my own construction… more like mind-contraption. My personal imagination? Could it be, that I was always reacting to false stimuli?

The dagger flew straight toward the sinister monster. Suddenly, it really seemed to be an alive creature with eyes, wings and a heart… what was that supposed to be? The undertow sucked on me, it was too strong. Free falling upwards unto the big monstrous jaws of that sinister creature. I saw the Prices’ house moving away from me. Getting smaller and smaller as I was tugged away. William held his daughter. He neither was mentioning me nor recognizing me. Am I such a petty little something to him? So fucking irrelevant? Seemed so, yes. None of them even raised their heads as I left. As though I had been a ghost who vanished.

Time froze, when entering the tornado’s mouth. For one moment, I had the assumption that I could finally leave that place and perish. But unsurprisingly, it was not the end. I had a clear and secure view over Arcadia Bay. From above, everything was shattered and ruptured. Whose work was this? That all couldn’t be me. I saw billions of small particles sparkling in mid-air. The tornado jiggled and twitched… and contracted as if it was a ginormous muscle which had to digest me. The time fragment was over, but me, I was stuck in limbo. What would I do up here? I genuinely stuck in mid-air, nothing sane for acrophobia. An uber-clear view down to the city of despair, grief and… worse. Mother nature ravaged and plowed through the gravely imbalanced lost paradise. Am I the wrong weight on a scale? A scale that can’t balance my existence. My heart needs a rangefinder which any camera has… oh man, I thought poetically again.

Because I was up there, and had all the time I needed, I could recall all occurrences and rethink my strategies for the solidified timeline. That time fragment was yet another yet confusing area which made no sense at all. It was so damn overwhelming to see everything destroyed from that perspective. Up in the eye’s maw. The hurricane that no one had expected to come. I could see the bended circular gray stripes spinning around me. They distorted the look through its outside hull. Like a bulged lens. Christ, I missed my camera so much! As I looked up I saw the red glowing eyes blinking through my body. The wings fluttered loudly, though time was frozen and the tornado itself didn’t proceed any farther. Vertically beneath my position, I saw the Price’s house being eaten up. The town underneath looked like little toy bricks that have been chewed up and spat out… That was how mother nature’s fury boiled through its chest.

Over time, I forgot how cold it was outside, hovering in mid-air and feeling the rain crashing on my thin skin. And up here, I was in the heart of the cataclysm. Coldness. I knew, if I rewound time more and more, this time fragment will corrupt further. Whatever I was about to do, it would have serious effect on the time fragment and maybe the subsequent - _regular_ \- timeline. The Shit-Array, I had totally lost track of. For what I could understand, the ominous knife had to have a genuine connection between Chloe and I. Why was she holding it? Why wasn’t the shiv flying past me and thrusting in her chest? I thought this was, how time fragments had to work. They open and close but Chloe must die somewhere allowing me to elope…

I had to focus the shiv to leave the very first time fragment, that I can remember. But that wasn’t all about that. I kind of _jumped_ back to the beginning of the muddy pathway which led up to the lighthouse. And there, I had a totally different perception about time. It felt like the surreal nightmare before the reawakening of Jefferson’s class. Strange. This intermediate world had to bear something else. I wondered if I had reentered that intermediate world after leaving the bizarre fragment. Argh, my head spins too much, lately. No type of headache would ever be able to compete with mine. I made my way back to 2013 possible by cutting Chloe’s throat and focusing the bloodstained shiv like a photo.

Well, the Real-Max wanted me to _not_ harm her. Along with all those thoughts, I sighted the dagger, floating around and slowly spinning in front of my eyes. Shining brighter than white. Look at me, free floating in the tornado’s stomach. Inside the beast, that engulfed me. What could I do? I mused for a long time while the dagger had already left my vicinity and made another loop. Interestingly, I couldn’t hear the ugly pure tone, when time was in a frozen state. I stuck up there forever. Would it keep me in that hell for all eternity? Was I the monster all along, anyway? What could be the next thing after another rewind? Running away so that I can’t be sucked in?

What about William? Why was he there, too? Who else could come across? Why were there ghosts… was that a ghost town? So many questions. And I had no idea how to get going. And I was sure as hell, that one would never find answers to them. I’d just master the way they work. I can’t prove the love to Chloe when I keep messing up stuff. So, what was I supposed to do there? I wanted her to kill me. But no… what about the polaroid image on her wall? It jittered and flashed… it could be an opportunity. Let’s go back!

I knew, I had to rewind farther back. As far as my powers would’ve allowed me to. So, I raised my hand to feel my own inner undertow. I closed my eyes. I wanted to rewind until I reached an inner boundary. The longer I rewound the harder my head started aching. I felt the beginning time-point. The in-point of this fragment. Again, it felt like a hook, which tried to rip my head off. Further and further. More and more. Deeper and deeper. My consciousness dwindled. I rewound until my strength abated. I passed out for a brief moment…

I heard a piano. I woke up in Chloe’s room. She wasn’t there, yet. The storm was far away and scarcely audible. Nobody was in the room. Great opportunity to steal the photo of the burning horizon. I thought, I could keep it, even after leaving the time fragment. Let’s see. I removed the pin from the wall and carefully took the softly jittering polaroid in my hands. It was such a masterpiece. How and where did she yield that talent? I saw a blueish looking clone ghost standing in front of our board. Our detective play whence we searched for the old barn. Sigh, the clicking of Chloe’s fingers on the keyboard reminded me of lying on Chloe’s bed while the phantom of Mr. Jefferson’s anesthetic rushed through my veins. Speaking of which, I found my schoolbag on her bed. Great, I put the photo inside of my battered bag. Good old reminiscence therein. Good old memories in this gruesome nightmare.

Looking at my arms while stuffing the polaroid in my bag, I realized that I was smaller… shrunk in this world… I was shoved inside my younger body. I saw the two ghosts collecting intelligence from Nathan and David. The ghost Max suddenly startled in front of the board, realized that she was back in her so-called reality. She turned around, rushed through me and embraced the ghost Chloe fondly at the messy desk. While she had gone through me, the phantom pain on my chest had vanished briefly. I couldn’t find any reason for this unknown pain. The remaining pressure of a phantom Chloe among my cloudy nightmare which is called time fragment. Jesus, so many things to keep track of. I determined to leave the place.

I felt like I wasn’t compelled to stay once again. On my way to Chloe’s door, I saw the stereo playing “Messiah by Voicians” with a blueish glow around its small display. Yeah sure, Arcadia Bigfoot-Ville definitely could use a Messiah. And that’s _absolutely_ not me! I’d rather be a witch. I wished I could’ve cured one’s life by raising my hand, instead of rewinding. For only one person. One choice, one person, one loaded power. The song was pretty nice, though. I could stay there and listen to it forever.

I stepped into the ghost Max, who was still embracing Chloe. The phantom pain was removed, again. Relief in a time fragment? No doubt, Max, you’re one hundred percent insane. I watched out of the window and saw the trash flying around. On the other hand, I was sure that none of all the ghost characters were seeing the same things that I was.

Then I had to get away. Hope, I wouldn’t bash my head in the ghost who had run away from me at the very beginning of this time fragment. I opened Chloe’s door and closed it behind. The song on her stereo kept its volume up throughout the house. But after leaving Chloe’s room, I also heard Joyce’s voice saying, “He almost missed the bus on his way to Arcadia Bay. He’s so quiet and sad. I wish, I could help him out of his troubled mind.” Where did her voice come from? Guessed, there was no stepprick, who’s ruining our day… inside a time fragment. I’d kill to listen to “Piano Fire” in Chloe’s room, again just to trigger David’s anger. Maybe while _medicating_ on her bed. The blue butterfly… it was the first time, I ever had the feeling, that I honestly made a change to the better.

I walked downstairs, but Joyce’s voice came from above. I stopped at the middle of the stairway. As I turned around, I saw my alternate ghost standing at her bed through the wooden banister. Oh, were they talking about the paraplegic Chloe? I still think it was a mistake that I didn’t put her into the eternal sleep, or had I killed her? Gee, I can’t keep track of my own memory. I paced inside the bedroom. It was odd to watch two ghosts talking about… something that regularly had never happened. And even weirder to see Joyce smoking. I’m an odd miracle. “That’s how upset he was about war. Seeing him in the diner every day, makes me sad…,” Joyce concluded. Seemed as if she was talking about David. A man she’d have never met, if William had ever survived.

“Honey, I’m back! Honey? Where are you? Chloe… Chloe? Imma count to three!” The time fragment had been proceeding until that spot already? How short was it? Well, I couldn’t remember Chloe being present in her room so, he’d have no possibility to embrace his daughter. I flinched, since the strong weather pulled Chloe’s door away. It flaps against the wall and ruptures everything with its doorknob. I left Joyce and the other alternate Max in the bedroom. They both kept chatting about an event I had never experienced before. And maybe they talked about the disabled Chloe, too.

I walked to the doorway and spotted the young Chloe in front of the mirror. William came up the stairs. “One… two…,” he counted up. William grabbed my shoulder, “Excuse me.” I couldn’t believe that. He… William – in the flesh and alive – grabbed me and nudged me away. Not even saying my name. That ghost house was drowned in my guilt. I didn’t need much more proof than William’s reaction to me. I was standing in his daughter’s doorway. The last thought in my head was, leaving their house without comment. There was no reason anyway. They all ignored me. Only ghosts were interacting with each other. “Get out of here Max, before you totally freak,” was my terminational thought.

But… you must’ve seen that! Chloe is younger… shit why? Those time fragments fucked with my emotions damn hard. I thought that nothing was normal there. Anything could happen. Nothing would sweep me off my feet. The polaroid – that was on the wall – seemed to be in my bag. Still somehow. Strange, I thought, that nothing does make any sense inside fragments.

“Dad?” Chloe ran into William. “Chloe hah ha, _three_ … you’ve barely made it,” he counted up the last number. Both ghosts at the desk were also gone. I was hallucinating, wasn’t I? I didn’t know, if I was inclined to stay or run away. The hurricane didn’t affect them except for me. Chloe hugged her dad. I saw the dagger in her right hand. I wanted nothing else but going back to reality. Wherever that might be, now. I touched her hand, tried to pull the unholy shiv out of her grasp. I was well aware, it would be a mistake.

Chloe screeched her vocal cords sore, “ **No**!” the dagger illuminated, an ugly noise bellowed upon us all. My eardrums could’ve imploded at that moment. Visual artifacts emitted around the knife and distorted my vision. Shit, I somehow activated that thing. However, Chloe held the grip tightly. The lurid force brightened up the room. The tornado tore the roof off. The dagger stabbed into Williams back. Chloe’s hand was forced to kill. She dropped the dagger by releasing the hilt and she keeled over. A very deep state of shock, maybe. “I love you…,” William said exhausted but nothing else. He fell like a bag of sand, the dagger’s energy abated, time froze. I could still feel the tornados undertow tearing, sucking on my limbs. Chloe was still alive, but also frozen and disturbed, lying on the ground. She couldn’t believe the knife’s power. And she would never leave that time fragment to keep her memory about that.

The flow of William’s blood coursing down his back, was the only left indication about time. Was this blood of grief, too? I went to him and pulled the long shiv out of his back. Almost perfectly thrusted into his spine. This thing came from hell! William didn’t moan, nor say anything, as I pulled the knife out. Then it was back in my possession. I was sick of that shit... However, my strengths didn’t dwindle after getting back the knife.

While holding that thing in my left hand, I raised my other hand. I would rewind and see fit to flee. Hopefully, I would be stronger. I saw William and Chloe arising from the ground. During the rewind, I saw Chloe and William re-embracing each other again. They could do it forever. Again, I felt something engraving on my skin. Whatever happened, the Real-Max in the psychiatry reacts to everything I’ve done and will do. The passive rating system behind all my actions. The roof found its place back onto the house. Still, the dagger in my hand emitted its visual artifacts. Around its surroundings, everything was skewed and distorted, as if a fire burnt near me.

Something in my bag flickered and twitched. The photo of the burning horizon glowed. I took it… I could focus it? I realized that I wasn’t in the images reflex. Yet, I was able to focus it. How? The rewind aged me… I’m 18 again. My arms… the world shrunk… I was older. Was it the dagger that made our age jump?

Chloe – while embracing William – saw her stolen photo in my hands. I began to focus the image. Was it an opportunity to escape? The young Chloe frowned, as she saw her artwork in my hands. “Gimme back my photo!” she screamed shaking herself free out of William’s hold. He didn’t react to that. I stepped back a foot, but she aggressively re-approached me. Strange, didn’t she see the knife in my other hand? It would’ve been easy to harm her with it. She seemed to not give a shit at all. I had to stop the focus on the burning horizon image, because her facial expression had turned. Expressing disappointment. A polaroid time travel within a time fragment - which was filled with ghosts and whatnot – would be too dangerous, anyhow. I had to rewind instead. Chloe was furious about the theft.

While holding the polaroid image, I rewound with my other hand. The dagger’s power absorbed energy out of me. The polaroid image flickered, glimmered and almost blinded me on the left eye. Brighter than illuminated magnesium. I had to stop the rewind. My eyes hurt.

Chloe was yet still in front of me. I didn’t go back far enough. She grabbed my wrist, in which I held the knife. She wanted her photo back… it must’ve meant a lot to her. I should really give it to her. Sadly, she seemed to have triggered the dagger to do horrible things. “No!” I screamed that time. It was too late to refuse anyway.

My tight hold of the shiv dwindled, my hand released the knife and it dropped to the ground. William looked at us both again. Still with that warmhearted paternal love that I felt around him. He kept his even temper, along with the - more than trustworthy - smile on his face. But what now? The dagger illuminated, rose up in the air. It screeched upon us and found its first victim with an ugly swish which shot through the room. I blacked out, I couldn’t see a thing. I sensed myself landing on Chloe, however and she seemed to pass out likewise.

I awoke on Chloe’s chest. Time was in a frozen condition. All the world, the storm anything was stuck. Chloe survived. As I woke up, I regarded her lying on the ground. William was dead, having the dagger stuck in his chest. Chloe was yet frightened and disturbed. William was about to fall, but he didn’t. Blood spilled on the ground mingling with the first blood that flowed out of his spine. What and who killed him? My hands weren’t ensanguined. And still, I held the image of the burning horizon which didn’t react to focusing, for the world around me was frozen.

I was certain, the rewind didn’t help at all. It just changed the way of how they both met their death inside. But… I kept Chloe alive somehow. And the only indication about time is the flow of one’s blood, as was well known. I thought, you can get used to that. But I was scared shitless. Chloe’s death, Nathan’s suicide, the shot against my arm, and now William. Overkill, he actually had died years, ago. Seemed like time fragments don’t give a damn about logic.

Chloe woke up, I was still lying on her. The storm tore the roof apart and hanged in mid-air. The giant piece cast a shadow on me and her. The dagger shined long rays up unto the sky. “Messiah by Voicians” kept playing on the stereo. “I can’t look at him,” Chloe sobbed into my armpit. I felt her forehead pushing against my collar bone. Her breathing quickened. Her heart was on a race and hammered against my own chest. In the sinister mirror, we both were older. That mirror was a sheer juxtaposition. Quite the opposite to whatever reality I was living through. Time fragments were _some_ sort of reality, I was sure. But not far away from hell. Nothing had a sophisticated rule.

Chloe’s heartbeat comforted me, although it raced against my strangely calm rate. The frozen time condition was quiet. Very quiet. My right ear on her neck listened to the airflow and heartthrob. My left ear listened to the song on Chloe’s stereo.

“Where did he come from?” Chloe asked me. Still couldn’t believe that she was able to speak beyond the outpoint. At the same time, I saw our reflection again. The world inside was… ideal. The perfect world. Us both lying on her bed while the sun is shining and nobody gives a damn about me and her. “Chloe, do you see the floating roof up there?” I asked her. I was sure, that her time fragment felt very differently. “I see a monstrous tornado, the roof, …dad… yes. I’ve been here before,” she said. “I’ve seen everything in that mirror. And now it’s everywhere. This feels like a nightmare… I want out,” she began to cry. “I’ve been here, too. But somewhere else, to be honest,” I replied. “And how did you break out?” she wondered. Silence. I waited until the song on her stereo faded, which didn’t take long. “You didn’t kill him. I must do that,” she said after some time. “Max, you need to go back,” she ordered me. She wanted me to rewind? She stroked my left shoulder. In the meantime, I saw the snow doe hanging in mid-air. With the broken glass dome and snowflakes drawing a small particle trail above us.

“Please go back,” she begged me. “I can’t. I don’t want you to do this,” I tried to deny. She aggressively pushed me off her body. She got up and said, “You’ll regret this.” Watching her sad and angry face broke my heart. But then, I hit on an idea. I thought, I could leave the dagger in her room, maybe under her bed – where she wouldn’t find it. Then she could hug her dad with no dagger in her hand while I leave them alone. Nobody gets hurt and I could keep the polaroid with me. Nothing else would happen… and eventually I would be able to leave that ugly place without any victims. “It should be my fault,” she said, but I already started the rewind. We both had tears in our eyes. My tears wouldn’t disappear, but hers would. I’d see her tears entering her eyes. Metaphorically a horrible description…

I played back the entire happening until I reached the very beginning.

Chloe stood in front of the mirror, as well known. William would come home any minute. I dropped the shiv on her bed. Chloe turned around, “Max?” She squinted, since the knife was overly bright at its blade. “Messiah” played from the beginning on her stereo. I sat down on her bed. The dagger laid right next to me. Staring to the ground, and then up to the snow doe which had been replaced back in the shelf… unaffected. In that place, there were no boxes with letters. What else could I tell about this hellhole? Chloe sat down next to me by taking the dagger and lying it on her lap. “What’s wrong Max?” she asked me. My view went back to the wooden ground. My rewind hadn’t changed anything what our age had concerned. I stopped asking myself about any sense. The only thing I could understand, was that my diction was even worse in my thirteen-year-old body. “Nothing… I’m kind of over humanity, today,” I said listlessly. Deep in my heart I knew, that those weren’t my words I used.

Chloe patted my back and stroked it a bit. She was really worried about me. And her worry would suffocate in a heartbeat. She just didn’t notice that she was in her younger body. What a pathetic aspect, that she was just that nice to me, because I had rewound time again. “Honey, I’m back! Honey? Chloe… Chloe? Imma count to three!” Imma count to three!” William came back and iterated due to the time fragment’s lurid mechanism. I would just wait until Chloe… had murdered him and then go away.

William came the stairs and faced Chloe’s room up. Again, I saw the two ghosts cuddling at the desk. I didn’t want to ask myself any questions, but yet, I kept musing about writing everything down, what happened within that intermediate world. Maybe I’ll find a reason. “One… two…,” William counted up. Chloe stood up from her bed bursting with joy. Her weak spot represented as… her father. William stood in the doorway. “Dad,” Chloe in tears leaped up against him. Swaying a bit back as he caught her and chuckled after that. While tightly embracing William, she sobbed, “Where’ve you been?” William laughed. “In the nicest place on earth,” William whispered. I turned myself around and contemplated the real adult Chloe hugging _nobody_ in the reflection of the creepy mirror. My bloodshot eyes belonged there, as well. Insomnia and other horrible things had rendered those bloodshot eyes. I should die inside the time fragment. I wondered what would happen to the Real-Max, then. Probably dead too… It was time to get out of there.

I knew the following steps were crucial. First, I had to trigger the daggers energy by touching Chloe’s backside of her hand. Then, I’d tug the dagger out of William and try to run away with it. That’s what I hoped there. I had a plan inside a completely senseless reality.

So, I got up and squeezed myself through both of them. Chloe really held the dagger in her hand, again. As, nothing else happened there, I touched the back of her hand to answer her desire. “ **No**!” she screamed in deep pain. The roof was ripped off by the tornado. Everything repeated itself.

After all this, I immediately went to William and tugged the knife out of his back. That time however, he reacted differently, “It’s not your fault…” Chloe lied on the ground, in a deep state of shock. I couldn’t move a… muscle… my legs stuck to the ground. The dagger had captured me.

I stood before Chloe, my shadow fell on her face. The snow doe flew past me and dispersed the snowflakes across her room. Glistened by the bright shining of the shiv. The storm continued and howled through the big opening in the wall. Time didn’t freeze. Chloe got up, jittering and shaking on her entire body. She covered her face to prevent me from seeing her grief. “Why are you doing this?” she shed tears into both her hands. Tears squeezed through the little gaps between her small fingers and flowed down on the backside of her hands. She fell on her knees, kept fighting against her loss. I assumed, William is her phantom pain in the real world… that was the sanest thought in a while.

It wasn’t Chloe’s job to finish him off. Me, I made a big mistake which is connected with him. The dagger in my hand charged new energy, I could sense the twinging undertow stitching in my knuckle. The blade rose and prepared its next thrust. I used the right hand to clutch my wrist because the blade’s bloodthirst was utterly noticeable. I knew it in my gut.

The dagger drew near her. No! I hadn’t been weakened and yet my arms were too feeble to keep it away from her. “Go for it!” she tried to encourage the dagger’s force. But it wasn’t me moving the shiv towards her. “That’s not… I swear it’s not me,” I cried because I was re-experiencing that happening. It all happened the same, I feared that I ran out of odds.

Chloe shouted at me, “Kill me… just like anybody else!” Although she wanted to play tough, I knew, she just pretended. William’s death was too hard for her to realize. “I just want to leave this place,” she whimpered. She uncovered her face… her eyes had turned red, filled with tears which were running down her cheeks. A swollen throat. Her eyes sparkled since the knife’s blade shined brighter and brighter. My dropped shadow was on the left half of her face. The dagger approached her chest. I couldn’t… I had to rewind…

I raised my right hand, but - **Shit**! My nose started bleeding like a river… the rewind interrupted right off.

The dagger had just moved back about one inch. Since the failed attempt to rewind weakened my senses, the dagger’s force became even more powerful. No doubt, it used my weakness to thrust its sharp blade into Chloe’s chest. My body followed the inevitable movement and I smashed together with her on her bed. It was so strong, we twisted while falling on her bed. I landed on my back and she followed. The dagger’s handle dug into my belly.

Shit no! I tried to rewind, but it interrupted immediately.

Chloe’s sad face… I never saw her younger self die. The mirror contained small drops of blood at the middle part. The dagger impaled her heart but I didn’t want to look at the deep cut. After all, I knew where to pull, because the knife’s handle pressed against my abdomen. I pulled the thing out of her chest with my eyes closed and chucked it somewhere into the room. As I opened my eyes, I saw her face… all vividness had vanished. I accepted the situation… and embraced the young Chloe, whose face slipped onto my chest. Her mouth bled. Blood coursed out of her chest and filled my belly area with her warm blood. I pet her head with my left hand… although she was already gone… The song “Messiah” had left the climax and kept its impact in my head. My throat ached, and I began crying. In what world was I living? Behind me William - killed by Chloe’s hand, which had been touched by my hand. I had one answer, after all. The dagger wasn’t only connected with me, but also with Chloe… no matter at what age…

I gently moved her down off me. My jeans were covered in blood, some stains of blood remained on my belly. She had closed her eyes. She peacefully lied on her back and I laid my head on her cut chest. I listened to her last few… weak breaths. The dying breath was imminent. With the right ear, I perceived the obscure pulse and slow airflow in her lungs. Time froze. My nose bled gravely. I can’t rewind anymore.

I got up and saw the roof being engulfed by the tornado… but it was in a frozen state. I fetched my bag and grabbed my camera. You’ll never get such a great opportunity twice in your life, Max. I took the photo. Without looking at the printed image, I look back to Chloe. I picked her up from her bed and hauled her to William. I didn’t want to leave this place with both lying at separate places. They both belonged together… I couldn’t accept her dying alone and lying alone there forevermore.

My only wish was, to abscond that place. The dagger stuck in her wardrobe. I tore it out of the wood and tried to focus the reflection. Unfortunately, the blade glowed brighter than white. It would have burnt my eyes, if I had tried to focus. I dropped the dagger, since there was no point, anyway. After that, I sat down on Chloe’s bed. Imbued with wide stains of blood I glanced on her duvet. For the last time, I wanted to turn back time.

I raised my hand, shut my eyes. I want to… ouch! Fuck!

That was such a cruel mistake. Christ, I could feel something writing on my skin. Real-Max would be upset if she found out… I deemed, she already knew about everything. I plummeted. Sighting the mirror, it also began to flash and flicker. What the hell? Seeing the dagger lying on the ground… it shined so bright, it couldn’t be used as a tool to port out of this place. So here, it was a mirror instead? I tried to get up on my feet. But first and foremost, I wanted to say goodbye to Chloe and William. They couldn’t hear me anymore but I said, “You’ll never be alone. None of you,” to the empty shells, that once kept souls. Now, they are at a better place, I really wished. There was nothing to be done about that. Nothing!

When I turned around I saw the image of the burning horizon flashing. No time for that, Max; leave - now! I remembered the first fragment. After cutting up her throat, the dagger was my vessel to escape. It seemed as though the blade’s reflection lost its purpose. Now it was that mirror with the same symbols and adornments around its frame. Sigh, if there was a God, I’d ask him if he’s fucking serious with all this. Or maybe it was Dr. Jacoby pumping too much SSRIs in my body. What the hell ever, I knew at least one way out. Sadly, I had no odds to rescue Chloe… After all, she’s not alone…

I stared at the mirror while blood flooded out of my nose. Things started to glow. I focused tighter.

I’m… back here. Time feels different. I know this place. I’m back at the muddy pathway. The storm howls and the wind flogs the hill. The tornado is back, hovering above the sea. But… I know I’m out of the time fragment. I’ve been here before. This is the intermediate place, I was thinking about. It’s not a time fragment and no reality either. Could it be, that it’s a surreal vision whence I can predict some sort of future? Logs of wood overrun me. Shit!

I raise my hand to save my life.

I step aside and take the forking off pathway along a few big stones. Rain crashes on my face, but it feels more… natural. Strange… I had the same feeling after leaving the very first time fragment, too. You could compare this with deep-sleep level back to semi-sleep. Fuck, I’ve got plenty else metaphors up my sleeve. But wait, something has changed here, too…

The lighthouse… but somebody is up there. The heart of the hurricane growls unto here. The blood of grief from Chloe has flowed down to the beginning of this pathway. A tiny river, that glimmered and expanded. Trees have fallen down, others bend with the brutal winds… trash and leaves revolve around this hill. The bright ray from the lighthouse burns those dark particles. I don’t know, if I really want to go up there. I spot some kind of silhouette at the peak of the hill. So, since I’ve got nothing to lose, let’s go up again. The lighthouse has a giant crack at its middle part which means that the boat hit it some time ago already. The boat that should’ve hit me, has slid down to the shore and came to a halt on the rocks. A big wreck surrounded by rocks. But the silhouette becomes clearer, as I scale up the hill.

It’s William? What is he doing _here_? He looks very concerned and angry. “William… I…,” I’m astounded. And yet I’m trying to get a word out through my lips. He crosses his arms. Weird, why doesn’t he care about the weather, the storm, all this shit around us, me? “William…,” I try again. “This is all your fault,” he says pointing with the finger at me. Weird, because he totally contradicts himself, “I know and wish you’ll be sorry for that.” – “William I’m so… sorry,” I want to run into him and hug him. It’s such a relief, seeing him again. He rejects and nudges me away. I plummet to the dirty soil. The fresh blood of Chloe has remained until now. “You moved Chloe’s hand, and you moved me. Who’s gonna be next?” he asks me with an incisive tone. I feel the mud sticking to my face. William frowns at me. Although he’s the exact opposite of what I can remember, he’s not attacking me or doing anything else. He’s just standing there. Keeping his distance.

I got back on my quivering legs. I feel the guilt about what I’ve done. “Max Caulfield, what have you become?” he asks me. I hate the way he behaves. That’s almost comparable to my other self in the fun house. The Real-Max behavior. He stands there just like a statue, unimpressed by these surreal surroundings. I walk to the bench. He doesn’t follow. “If you could do me a solid, please keep Joyce out of this,” he says. A little dry. I look at my bag. The photo of the burning horizon is still inside. Where will I appear or emerge on Tuesday? Jefferson hasn’t abducted me. So where will I be instead? I can’t appear in an asylum, that’s for sure. It wouldn’t make any sense, or would it? That should mean, I’ve got two asylum states. One in 2013 and the other two years later. No… that’s impossible.

The tornado spins towards Arcadia Bay, hovers just above the sea. Sigh, my dream within a dream – time fragment event – feels like a totally different world. A world between me, the real world and something else. Looking over my shoulder, I see William. Still looking at me. Still mean. Not being himself, at all. Looking back to the wild sea I ask myself, how will I leave this place, then? Jumping off the cliff? No… that would be too easy and too dumb. I feel something uncomforting. As I turn my head, William is immediately behind me, near the bench. The ginormous shadow of the lighthouse drops onto us. I never thought, that William had a dark side. And I won’t find out, if this place is just myself who’s totally losing it…

I startle and step away, but he follows me. A few steps more and I’m off. He slowly comes nearer. Frowning… eerily. My heart starts pounding up to my head. The sound of the hurricane lowers and the sound of my rushing blood through my ears increases.

Shit, this is the end. With both his hands and his entire energy he nudges me off the cliff. I see the gray sky, with swarms of particles spinning in mid-air. Free falling with my back facing to the rocks, I’ll die here. I hear the surge of the waves becoming louder. The wind swishing along my ears feels cold. The airflow cools my back. It’s loud, I finally die. Finally.

\--------  
The chime echoes in my head, while darkness fills my perception.  
\--------

I awake screaming in my bed. Where the hell am I? Christ, my heart lets my veins explode. Shit, I feel the beat everywhere within my body. I’ve awoken in a pretty dark room. And no, I don’t mean that place. I reckon, this is my dorm room. But where exactly? I’m on my couch? The matrass leaned against the door. The venetians are shut. The alarm on my stereo starts playing “The Notwist” and the most suitable song, yet, “Pick up the phone” it’s time to get up, but I don’t feel too well. I feel like shit. I hear somebody thumping on my door. Through the matrass, it sounds like a deaf thump underwater. Yeah, I definitely feel like drowning all along. It’s just a question of when my life finally gives up the struggle.

I haul the matrass away from the door. It flaps to the ground and covers my carpet. Somebody on the other side tries to move the handle, but apparently, I locked my door. Cool, where are my keys? Well shit! I lie down on my matrass again to rest. It neither had blanket nor sheet. Looking at the ceiling, I can clearly see, that I updated my wall o’ photos into the third dimension. They proceeded up to the ceiling. More dark photographs.

I don’t need to have a look in the mirror. I know I’ll look worse than ever. Oh, I see, I’ve put my doe tee over it so that I needn’t see my disgusting face. Right now, I need nothing else, except this perfect music track on my stereo. Just think about it. To finish a work to say farewell for the last time. The thumping on my door intensifies. It’s Kate’s voice screaming my name. She’s worried as hell. “Max, please… please let me talk to you!” she screams against the door. But I don’t give a fuck. I’m glad to be back, to the less maddening reality. I can feel how my mind has careened off. My phone vibrates… I pick it up from my couch. Chloe has written a long message to me? The screen appears to be a blur. Okay, now I can focus a tad more.

“max are you ok? stepdouche will kill me when he sees the blood on my duvet. where are you? please call back asap. im at the windmill all day. dont let me alone here”

The knocking on my door turns into a desperate slamming. Kate… I’m sorry. If I had no superpowers in this reality, you’d be the one, who saves me from jumping off the dorm’s roof. I’m dead serious. The song keeps playing. I raise the volume on the stereo. I can’t stand hearing my name over and over. I don’t want to hear it! I’m Zombie-Max with bloodshot eyes and severe Stockholm syndrome. I crank up the volume even farther, until the thumping against the door drowns.

I see something flashing in my bag. I get up and walk to my desk. Everything is a mess. I open my old-school bag and hold the polaroid image of the burning horizon in my hands. Tears run down my bloodshot eyes. Through the loud noise of the song I can hear Kate’s desperate screams. “Pick up – MAX -- the phone and – MAX -- answer me at last - today…,” Kate’s voice and the music track are fighting. What’s her concern? Aren’t I the fucking drama queen at Blackwell? I open my laptop and, wow… I forgot how long it took for it to boot. I feel something on my lap…

I palpate my crouch… no, no, no, no fuck no! The phantom impress of Chloe has grown down to my lap. My belly… I can feel her head lying on my belly and chest, at the same time. “Maaaaaaax!!” Kate shouts through the door. My laptop is finished with booting up… let’s check the mails first. Principal Wells wrote me something… Sean Prescott and my Mother. To hell with that! I go and check social media…

“Pick up the phone” sings inside my dorm room. The refrain has been reached a second time. Kate screams once more. As I check my Facebook page, I understood a lot more… A pathetic feeling in my gut. It makes me sick to look at… THIS! I fall down from my chair. At a single blow, I feel cold and lonely. The darkness in my room has suffocated my soul. Kate hammers against the door… I assume, she’s wanted to warn me of the disgusting things that I can see on the web. I want to get up fetch my dorm keys and let her in. But I’m too frail right now. “LEAVE ME ALONE!” sputters out of me. Lying on the ground I turn my head towards the wall. Next to the crushed poor Lisa, I regard my guitar. The strings are torn off from the peghead. Somebody carved inside the wood of the sound chamber “murderer”. Thanks, leaving two vile nightmares has made me believing in that enough. I don’t need this approval.

I crawl on the ground, trying to reach the door. I need salvation… no matter how. I reach the handle, where are the keys? I let go off the handle and fall on my upper body. I’m too weak. While gazing up to the ceiling, I scream louder and louder, “Help, help… help!” Under my couch, I find my teddy without his head. Sigh, I know exactly how you felt. Weird coincidence… he almost killed me and now he’s lying under my couch next to lot of books, sheets and other trash. I think I’ll fail on this academy. I need somebody, right now. Chloe’s not stable enough and too far away. Kate is like three foot away but impossible to reach. My emotions crush me. I begin to cry… but I don’t want to be alone… I’m not strong enough to fetch my keys… GET UP MAX! My psyche refuses my body to move. I’m refused to move. I’m encaged by myself. My tears burn like fire on my cold skin. I sense all my bones on the rough ground. Prostrated by the seamless transition between 2015 and 13, the time fragment and the following intermediate reality.

I hear Kate crying. What has she on her mind? No more questions. “Pick up the phone and answer me at last - Today I will step out of your past…” The song on my stereo continues. And it conjures back my grief. “Help me Kate!” I scream, “Help me, please…”

Tuesday has just begun and I’m feeling dead, already.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decisions made by Max (their importance/weight is kept secret):
> 
> -She convinced Michael to trust her positive attitude  
> -She tried to regain Daniel’s trust, but failed because her rewind-powers made her pass out  
> -She determined to rewind after Dr. Jacoby had seen her nosebleed  
> -She vowed that she had written all the letters to Chloe  
> -She told Chloe to toss the gun away, since she was afraid of another accident to happen  
> -She deposited Chloe’s phone number on her mobile  
> -She stole a photo showing us a burning horizon  
> -She took a photo within the time fragment  
> -She determined to touch the dagger in Chloe’s hand which caused a chain reaction  
> -She determined to leave the fragment and Chloe having her father murdered  
> -She ignored Kate’s attempt to help  
>  
> 
> “Memorize Max” (Events or occurrences everybody took note of, including Max):
> 
> -Max is called ‘Memorize Max’ by Michael  
> -Rewinding in 2015 reveals faded notes on Max’s skin  
> -Apparently, Max normally poses a threat to the other patients  
> -Michael appreciates Max’s attempt to apologize to his little brother  
> -Max experienced a time fragment via a corrupted polaroid image  
> -Chloe wouldn’t forget those moments on shore  
> -‘The Red Miracle’ was the headline of the Real-Max, addressed to the Alt-Max  
> -Chloe didn’t want to know the content of the letter  
> -Max couldn’t stand the blood inside Chloe’s truck  
> -Chloe disclosed her thoughts about ‘Don’t Stay Here’  
> -Max deduced that Chloe was not afflicted by her changes whereas other people were afflicted  
> -Max wasn’t able to find out anything about William  
> -The tornado in a time fragment has visual artifacts, just as the dagger had  
> -The time fragment had another visual appeal  
> -Chloe apologized to William all the time – inside the time fragment  
> -The tornado within the time fragment looked like a giant monster with actual body parts  
> -That time fragment bore many alternate events from Arcadia Bay, before reaching the end-point  
> -Max pondered on another possible superpower like healing, instead of rewinding  
> -Max overheard a conversation between two ghost characters, talking about someone who almost missed a bus to Arcadia Bay  
> -It’s unknown if Max had assisted Chloe’s suicide or not  
> -William disrespected Max inside that time fragment  
> -Real-Max took note on her body during Alt-Max’s actions inside the time fragment  
> -After corrupting the time fragment more and more, Chloe was able to be awake beyond the fragment’s end-point  
> -In time fragments you have a limited amount of rewinds until it starts hurting and blocking  
> -Max left the time fragment by focusing a bloodstained mirror  
> -William met Max inside the intermediate world in which she had believe to get out by being hit by the wreck of a boat  
> -William wished Joyce held out of everything that Max would do  
> -The wall of photos had been expanded to the ceiling  
> -Max saw something disgraceful being shared on social media  
> -Someone carved “murderer” on Max’s guitar


	8. The Ænima Theory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After so much trouble there's something else inside the Caulfield's-Mind. Max needs some kind of relief. Considering all the visions that she had, she now experiences something rather different. All her senses focus on something different. It's not about framing, capturing or something, it's about the purity of a curing emotion, she totally forgot...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Original date of release - May 28th 2017 -
> 
> (May 2018) Most recent changes/updates:  
> -added some detail  
> -improved language  
> -some bloaty redundant lines have been shortened  
> -improved readability

**Chapter 08 – The Ænima Theory**  
_(Updated May 2018)_ **  
Theme Song: Deftones – Be quiet and drive (Acoustic** **)**

This is not my breath. I’m in a daze. My fingertips prickle when I try to move them an inch. Although my eyes feel widely opened, I perceive nothing. Another kind of emptiness, albeit not in a negative way. There is something very close to me. Comforting me, alleviating the stitching pain. What kind of power is this? This entity purges all depressing reminiscence. Despite that I can’t actively breathe, my chest raises and lowers as it would naturally do. But I wonder, what energy spheres me. Don’t want to merely sense it, I want to hear, see and taste. All regular senses should work. My neck also prickles when I try to tilt my head. Am I dead?

Inhaling… feeling fresh warm air flooding my lungs… and I can hear again. A soft but mute sound of something unknown stroking around my ears. Clearer and clearer until every little noise in this room sounds sharp. I must wake up. This _must_ be a weird dream. Strange, I’m not thinking about anything else. No negative thoughts circle in my head as usual. I’m just _enjoying_ this weird aura of warmth and comfort.

Something breathes around my mouth, every fiber puckers as this mild exhalation tickles my skin. Now, my lips prickle. The back of my head gets a gentle massage, which I can just assume, since my only working sense is my hearing and some of my tactile sense. Open up those eyes, I want to know, what’s going on. Akin to a wet towel, something touches the upper lip, sucking on it with mild force.

I hear you breathe, that’s you. The sound of the air leaving your nostrils. I reckon it’s you. What are you doing here? What are you doing with me? Just one minute ago, my nose didn’t pick up scents of anything, but now I can finally smell again. Her blanket has to be beneath my left cheek. I’m addicted to her beautiful fragrance. I wish I could say, that my heart pounds a million times per hour against my chest, but I can only smell and listen, in this moment. Currently, there’s nothing wildly going on up in my mind. This must be the deepest point of meditation, trance, or maybe a very relaxing dream.

Oxygen flies off my nose, I feel both nostrils pushing air out of my lungs - my chest tingles. Interestingly, the pushed-out air convolutes just before my very face, blocking the way. A broken airflow barely in front of my head. There’s a distinct sound of a crackling from some sort of stereo player. A hefty reverberation through this bizarre space.

Only God seems to know, where I am and what I am. The big question, _where am I and why_ doesn’t matter to me - it wouldn’t add up anyway. Happiness is the plain feeling growing and sprawling within my little thorax, like a flower opening its blossom showing bliss. I try to turn my head again, however, the prickle spreads inside my neck, and scales down my spine. Similar to goosebumps but only at one place. I hear something stroking along my neck and kissing it gently almost inaudibly. Those lips… tenderly brushing over the area I can’t move. This self-caused tingle added with this soft kiss, it’s nothing compared to anything else I’ve experienced in my life.

Come on! I can’t wait to see what’s going on. While my mind is totally nervous and freaking out, I can’t sense the same feeling physically. As if everything which is happening in this moment, has been surely predetermined. Stop this partial arousal! I want to see it… and… oh man - that’s _big_ of you -, I can finally taste something whilst drawing my breath in. In an instant, I taste a warm and slowly moving tongue inside my mouth.

It’s not my own, it’s… I’m kissing with somebody. A taste of sweet lemon spins around my tongue that I yet can’t feel… with the common bitter aftertaste. Those lips are somewhat sticky, as they suck on my bottom lip. It’s awkward to explain this way of contact. I’m not feeling my own body but somebody else’s body. Teeth dig into my lower lip, which somehow hurts, but I can’t move anyway. I want to yank my mouth up, and yet my whole jaw prickles. Those deep-dug teeth inside my lip feel painful, my eyes water some tears. The other one’s nose pushes a breath of wind against my mouth.

With a silent smooch, the lips seem to leave my mouth and brush along my cheek. Unfortunately, I cannot see this either. Whether I try to move a muscle or not, the whole area prickles as though it had been numbed. All of it remembers me of a vivid dream, devoid of the crucial ability to see - to behold in a dream is a strain. One way or another, I enjoy my purged and cleared mind which only concentrates on relaxation. Not having all senses at disposal is the only frightening and nonrelaxing thing.

I can hardly see. I breathe a sigh, just another blur. But I can tell you that I’m lying on the left sideways position on a cushy bed. Warm orangey light permeates the room. The light doesn’t hurt my eyes, although all of it enters my optic nerve at once. Assumptions are senseless. There’s nothing that could go wrong. In front of me, I sight the shape of someone’s face. Wearing blue hair and evidently using the arms to touch my face. The soft fondle of her fingertips sounds like a calm sea with water surging against rigid rocks.

The blur becomes somewhat sharper; My mind accepts the fact that I’m inside another big dream. It must be Chloe, in front of me and she immediately smile, beams with joy as she ogles me awakening... Guess, she saw me recognizing her after my pretty weird struggles against the lack of senses. Since her hair is blatantly blue, I’m sure as ever that I am not where I’ve ever been before. I can’t remember where I’ve been before when. My last thoughts must’ve have been devastating, but I don’t care about this reoccurring amnesia either. It’s feels like, “Ignore hell and you’ll choke it”. Shut up, brain! Your _brain_ is doing something else. Breathe easy. No more having a heavy heart.

Chloe opens her mouth. A wide smile follows, her eyes glint. Those lips of hers move as if she wants to tell me something. I’m trying to parse the way she is telling me… well, she must’ve asked me something but I’m not perceiving her voice. She has probably been worrying about my paralyzed condition. However, I can only hear the fingertips around my face and the crackle on the stereo. We are not in her room, are we? Hard to tell when there’s nothing clear to see, anything out of focus.

“This town don't feel mine -,”  
a beautiful song resounds and the singer continues,  
“I'm fast to get away… far,”  
Although not each little noise sounds clear to me, this song has a certain strength. A purity. It suits this strange place very well.

I love you Chloe! Why can’t I talk? Speak up, she can’t read nor hear your thoughts. This is not like a nightmare of any sorts. It’s not even like being anaesthetized. And still, it feels like being high on drugs. Self-created drugs make me feel right as rain. My right hand wakes up. It has lain on her left thigh. I move my hand up and down, I’m sensing her bare and warm skin in my palm. I’d actually like to cry my fricking heart out, but everything is alright; there ain’t nothing to cry for. I want to palpate her tattoos, those on her right arm. The arm she’s lying on. Nothing to worry about. I think, we got all the time in the world.

I sense a weak pressure around my belly area. A warm and soft sensation. Feels like it is being massaged from the inside. Connected with the rest of my body and all other of my working senses, this area feels the greatest. My heartbeat throbs down to my abdomen. A feeling beyond bliss. Just feeling yourself as great as your partner does. This situation is heaven for us significant others. A cure for one’s body and soul, which is only viable with one more component. Your personal goddess.

She is using her right arm, she has just lied on, to do something I cannot see. Watching her arm move somewhere down in the corner of my eye makes me curious on what she’s about to do. She yanks on my t-shirt and slides her hand up to my chest. Her fingernails tickling while she’s moving along my belly up to my ribs. Just at this moment I realize that I don’t wear a bra. She pushes her hand against my ribs just under my left breast. My heartbeat becomes audible in her ears. Rejoice buddy, a heart is beating over two hundred beats per minute.

Her hand deferentially pushing my ribs closer to the perpetual muscle inside my body. The fingernails biting themselves softly into the fibers of my skin. None of this seems sexually intended, she’s conjuring something. Really, what is this? It’s beautiful! Does it sound dull when I say, that some sort of draft whistles through our room? It licks the hair on my head, my arms and the rest of my skin. Chloe’s hair flutters to the wind. The orangish drapes with the net curtains fly along with the winds. More light beams into this room, clouding Chloe’s face and burning her hair from her back.

All forgotten, repressed pain is sucked in by her hand. It leaves my heart with every new beat. Each following slam against her hand slows down, weakens beneath her soothing hand. Finally, I can control my lungs, regulate the flow of oxygen, breathe a sigh of relieve as her hand sucks my pain, imbued by the pained past I have caused. It doesn’t look like it pains her to alleviate my sorrow, it gives her pleasure, mind you. She deeply digs her face on my neck, letting my artery pound against her puckered lips, which flatten with my every beat inside my body. 

I wonder, what sort of progress this is? A sacred haven? Rebirth? Resurrection? If yes, thanks for the prayers Kate… so much! Okay then, my nose, my sense of taste, partly my eyesight and ears plus my right hand work. My mind doesn’t however, just like the rest of my body. Thus, I’ll have to use my only usable limb to touch her face. Every movement feels intuitively chosen. No regret, no fright, no nothing. I’m allowed to do… anything I want to. Means no danger to things up. I can be me. Sane, innocent, not afflicted by any kind of cutthroat powers.

Drawing a very deep uncontrolled breath, I’m smelling the scent of her clothes, the hair, the wooden heated-up floor by the sun, all the trash on her desk. This beautiful scent’s mix soaring up into my nose wakes my mind. But still, this room looks like half hers and half… a different place. A beautiful composition. This bed is moving… shaking… somebody is driving us. In my field of vision, I can contemplate the rest of my surroundings. Except never wanting to leave this place, I also realize that I’ve never been in this situation before, like ever. Whatever the hell _before_ means. Fuck meanings of tenses. I can’t put them to any use.

Chloe grins and rubs her hand over my celiac plexus, saying thank you without me hearing it, and goes back to my neck and kisses it. Every new heartbeat slams via her thin fingers. I sense her fingertips atop of my chest - still absorbing the uncountable amounts of negative energy collected of my past. I breathe slowly, my heartbeat has calmed down to a very slow state. Everything’s relaxed and unwound.

We are in Frank’s RV. Yeah, I remember this place, although the other half appears to be Chloe’s room. On her desk, there are some black objects. They look like cameras. I can’t make out their exact position, though. I try to roll my eyes but it doesn’t work… it instantly prickles around the eyeballs. I cannot stop watching at Chloe’s face, which becomes sharper the more I look at her and the more she kisses my decelerating bloodstream inside my artery.

More and more details become visible. Aside from her wearing blue hair, there’s nothing else that has changed. I spot Rachel’s shirt on my upper body. My eyes suddenly squint, everything becomes an over-all blur. The blood rushing through my lips, begins to pound against the thin tissue. Now the flow of blood reaches my chest and then, my heart. The never-ending power of love has revived me quickly. I inhale as if I have surfaced after a long and cold dive. Both my eyelids open up widely. Chloe not only did suck all my pain off my chest by touching my heart, she resuscitated me entirely with it.

“I dressed you in her clothes -  
Now, drive me far…  away… away… away,” the song on her stereo concludes. Slow as my heartbeat.

God, this song is amazing. Goosebumps all over my body, every tiniest hair raises. Reminds me of my prickling when I’ve tried to move a single muscle. But now, my brain fully works. All body parts shiver, my jaw shakes and I can hear my teeth chatter on one another. Aside from my body being on adrenalin or endorphin now, I’m calm… maybe I’m drugged by both hormones. Justified overdoses. Is love so intense that it can paralyze one’s mind and revive it gently?

Oh, I forgot that I jumped inside another reality, or is it a dream? Possible, yet I always thought that your subconscious tries to process one’s memory in a dream. But this is _nothing_ compared to what I had undergone in the last twenty-four hours. Well, I deduce from this that I’m not inside a dream. My dreams would represent the plain opposite or maybe worse. I am back to where I belong. I made the right changes and now I’m here? Must be right. It feels right. Deserved.

With my right hand I slide along her face, down to shoulder and reach her waist and hold it. An electric pulse flashes through my fingers, darts up my arm and tickles at the back of my head. Whoa, intense stuff! With my left hand, I grab her neck and pull her head to mine. But very softly. She exhales through her nostrils as her lips cross mine again, her faster heart rate throbbing within her lips via my lower calm heart rate.

Pushed-out air tickles on my cheeks. Oh man, these soft lips… on her cozy bed. Just never shake yourself loose - out of my grip - again, Chloe. I feel her heartbeat pounding across our kiss even more intense. A quiet and yet very relieved moan breathes out of her nose. My eyes close, when I felt her teeth reaching my underlip. She lifts her left leg and places it on top of my right leg. I feel her knee on my pelvis. Her hand grasps my waist. Way harder than I’ve done. I sense her fingernails pushing into my skin. It’s not hurting… what a swift answer. She bites on my lower lip, sucks and licks it. My temples tingle, the signal rife with relaxation… and also nostalgia. As she tugs on the lip a timid exhalation follows. Again, I taste lemons in my mouth.

Chloe moves back with her head and says something with her eyes shut and a big smile on her face. Yet again, I only see her lips moving and I can’t read them. What the hell? My heart thumps against my chest and I can even hear the deaf cushioning of her hand caressing that spot. Just at the same time I realize, that my heartbeat has been going very slow, too slow to be precise. I’m not nervous nor shy nor anything. Am I divining the future? I’m going to wake up here again and your hair will be red. Hot like your forgotten anger and fury that you once had turned on me. You’ll never living through any pain again, that I had caused.

Water. I hear something that makes me rather disquiet. It sounds as if I’m surfacing once again. Rumble, sounds of voices clank in my ears and it hurts. Everything turns dark. I’m falling asleep inside this utopic place - a very last time, lips touch mine. I expect to hear the rattling of a bell as I’m used to, but nothing happens. I inhale again and this time, my heart goes on a race and thumps rapidly against my ribs.

I reopen my eyes…

Rest... My mind slowly regains… its common _insanity_. Witting suspension of disbelief? It had been the ‘willing suspension of disbelief’ as Dr. Jacoby would tell me. Astonishing how my wit had reacted to his gossip. Why am I thinking about that schmuck? He won’t be able to penetrate my mind again. He had scrutinized the Prescotts’ little boy’s soul long enough. I’m not the Prescotts’ next victim. Why are my thoughts so clear and alive?

I’m slumped, for real. I’ve been sleeping for the last hours. Yes, for the first time after a long period of nothingness, I’m conceiving some kind of serenity in the face of every fucking evil thing I have to face. I’m back in my dorm room. Christ, what a nice and calming _dream_. Never thought, that I adore a girl that much. Max, don’t think about your orientation on your quest about life and death, for fuck’s sake. I’m pretty sure, that’s what Chloe would’ve said if she’d heard my thoughts. Man, it’s dark… and I can still taste the lemon in my mouth. I hope it stays there.

I can’t hear Kate on the other side of the door, anymore. God knows for how long I’ve been sleeping. For some reason I’m feeling great. Well, my only assumption is that my brain finally had some spare time and free space to clear up some shit. Ugh, what time is it? I glance to… where in the hell am I?

I hid under my matrass. Slowly but surely my body gives me the necessary hurtful feedback. My brain is relaxed, but in return for this, my body is totally wrecked. That had to be the prickling ineptitude inside the dreamworld. Dang, I must’ve slept for centuries, since I’ve got tactile super-deep marks on my body. Ouch, my back. And the phantom pain never seems to get away. Oh man, thanks for reminding me of my alternative murderers which never happened. Remembrance is definitely a word that deserves a higher, rather negative emphasis. At least I’ve got a new phantom feeling. The taste of the lemon tongue spinning around mine. Hope, it won’t fade since its feeling is calming.

A quiet noise whispers out of my stereo. However, there’s no song being played back. My phone vibrates once again. I should get up and… jeez, my room is a bloody pigsty. Literally. I thought, I had tidied up my room together with Kate, yesterday or so. I grab my phone from the couch. I think that Chloe spammed me with more short messages. Sure as hell. Chloe wrote me two more of them. Whew, they are more sensible and lovely than I expected,

“max, where the hell are you? are you ok? nevermind, i understand your situation. take your time and i’ll wait at our windmill…”

And the subsequent message is the most pleasant,

“oh i totally forgot you lost all your memory. i’ll be chilling by the swings and wait there for you instead”

She has sent me that message just a few minutes ago. Great thing, I’ll answer her. But… oh no, right. I’m back on the shitty timeline. I’ve almost imagined myself kissing her on shore. I can’t _rewind_ here… damn no! Why did I say _no_ when she dared me to kiss her? I once had rewind powers. Could’ve tried it then, at least. Well, did I? I’m certain that I remember most of my choices from the original 2013, not this one I’m currently trapped inside. Now, let’s master this superpower-crap the same way. And to you, my nose, “Woe! You better not ruin this day!”

I’d better regroup with Kate. I’m very sure I should let her know about everything… well not really every detail but… my powers should be a good start. And that’s a heavy decision. I don’t know how much I’ll regret it. Wait a minute… I ran away from Kate, but in her message - which I had received in the diner - she referred to other events which hadn’t happened regularly. All she mentioned, was referring to the first iteration of Monday. She doesn’t remember the second Monday. Evan won’t remember the small talk about Rachel, either, though that was the first iteration. The German dude had never driven me to the diner... it makes sense - it all adds up nicely; I relive every day more than one time. And on my first run-through of Monday, Kate tidied up my dorm room, together with me. Shit, so many things to keep track of!

I broke the rules of Monday on my second run-through by being together with Chloe and not letting her go… does that mean, that I must also break particular rules of this Tuesday? Will also something bad happen today, which could reset me back to the asylum? So many questions… but I think I’m onto something that might solve this shitty timeline. Not having answers ready doesn’t mean, I’m poking around in the dark. Well… 2013 doesn’t seem to own its rigidity the Real-Max was talking about in the psychiatry. It’s more fragile than I have expected it to be, if it’s not beyond me with my own thoughts. But what’s going on with those time fragments? They are horrible and don’t make any goddamn sense. They occurred after leaving the psychiatry. Some sort of transition between 2015 and thirteen.

Let’s get some light in this pigsty. Ouch, I stepped onto something sharp. I almost swim through trash and clothes. Where’s the handle of the windows’ drapes? Ah here we go. The blinds spin. In a fraction of a second, light has spilled my room, with painful white rays of light. My eyes burn. I scream in deep pain, since my head is thumping and spinning all the time. Shit! I turn the handle and my room redarkens. Oh man, I’ve got stuff to do and I’m certain, it’s more complicated than I really want them to be.

At least Chloe isn’t afflicted. I’m sure, she’ll remember everything from yesterday and the second run-through of Monday. The _who the hell are you_ , the shot against my arm, me slumping on her because of Justin’s perfectly placed skateboard on the diner’s floor, Chloe raging because her mother talked to her about the bruise around her neck, the teleport pulse to the beach, lying on her bed while she patiently waited for my awakening, the letters of despair… darn… only negative or melancholic things, except for us being at the beach before I had reentered the sinister time fragment.

I undoubtedly will do more relaxing and merry things together with her. Only with her, if possible. How about performing some music… my guitar may be broken but I can fix it. Should have some auxiliary strings lying around here in this mess. “I will dare to love Chloe”, as my other self has written and ordered me.

I sit down on the chair at my desk. I won’t look on the social media page again. Luckily, I forgot the cruel stuff I had to see there. Beyond mocking and humiliation. However, if I want to improve mental sanity, I might do other things than discovering negative stuff. It won’t help Chloe, anyways. Somebody else has to be nosy this time. Ouch my butt. Okay first things first. Getting more flesh on my meager body. Second, I’ll see how Kate’s going to react when she sees me. And then, I should go to the... windmill… Which basically means, I’ll meet Chloe at the swings on shore. Hopefully, no whales will beach or an eclipse occurs.

I grab my diary. This is the most important thing now. Erasing my last and most recent entry. It caused a giant chain reaction up until 2015. Thus far, I had no idea what it may cause to the poor Real-Max. Those entries made Dr. Jacoby take away her – our – diary. Another reason for her to write down little notes on the skin. So, where are we?

“October 7th, 2013

-Awoke in a storm, had bad Amnesia and felt like shit  
-Multiple events were put together  
-Storm with tornado moved towards me  
-Chloe let fly off something at the cliff  
-Dagger placed on a tree stump flew in my hand and killed Chloe three times  
-Chloe saw me dying somewhere before  
-While all this, I felt something writing on my skin  
-After reawakening in Jefferson’s class my powers had changed  
-I pulse now in future and in past and can change position deliberately  
-I can also move persons that are in contact with me  
-Evan saw Nathan dying and forgot everything after I moved us backwards  
-I’m bullied  
-Nathan knows Chloe  
-Chloe has red hair  
-To specific events, something ports me to a designated area  
-Brooke hangs out with Warren”

Score Max! Just remove this page and you fixed one big issue. It’s a breeze. Now, where to with this page? I can’t see shit here. I use my phone’s flashlight and put it on my desk. What a fricking mess. How can it be that somebody rampaged through here again? Wait… my wall of photos still looks the same. It must’ve been I, who rampaged through her very own room. The gaunt on the wall describes the same and my mirror is totally broken. Billion little charts on the wall, more likely a displaced puzzle than a reflecting mirror. I’ve got no idea how it’s sticking to the wall. Just a love tap and it’ll shatter.

Having a look down on my body, and I can clearly see my first self-written _tattoos_. I obviously began with them on Tuesday. Except for my undergarments I’m wearing nothing at all. What a night… what an awkward morning… And now I feel something else… I have to wee.

All my self-written words say the same thing, “the bells are ringing”.

Poor Max… a little bit of self-pity… thanks for the reminder though. I also must find out about those bell sounds. They always occurred while pulsing through time and space. And they also rattled concurrently to specific time events. I was in the dark room, while also being in Chloe’s room. Oh shit, this intricate time travelling mechanism is killing me. No wonder why I’m losing it and find myself back in the asylum. At the same time, they sound exactly the same like those from the dark room. Think about something different. Love Chloe, love Chloe, love Chloe!

Thy will be done Real-Max. I do positive things and you - me - we won’t suffer in our hazy future.

I remember the mental enema, that I could’ve used, back in the day, when Chloe and I chilled on the train rails near the junkyard. Guess, this dream-vision-thing that I had like five minutes ago was the beginning of this deep relaxing treatise. The Caulfield’s-Mind had the first session of mental enema.

Okay, I really need a better name for this. It was not like my mind was taking a dump afterwards. And the pressure on my bladder only intensified all other senses. Nonetheless, it was damn amazing and only proved my never dying interconnection with Chloe. Maybe even into other dimensions…

It feels as if I iterate an ancient saying from me, but no time travel powers will keep my body clean. And I’ve got all the time of the world now, for a second time. But first, I need to wee and then take a shower. Wait… after I will have put something on my body; can’t run around with my panty only. Damn you, fucking tenses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decisions made by Max (their importance/weight is kept secret):
> 
> -She had no choice but to let the vision happen  
> -She tore her most recent notes out of her diary
> 
>  
> 
> “Memorize Max” (Events or occurrences everybody took note of, including Max):
> 
> -Max will never forget this vision  
> -Max realized the notes on her body


	9. Benevolence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The last time fragment is over. It's Tuesday. Max slowly begins to understand, that her missing time-travel powers make her slower, inferior and weaker. Kate and Dana are the first persons that Max tries to confide in. After so many things to keep track of, Max begins to write notes and thinks about a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Original date of release - August 1st 2017 -
> 
> (September 2017) Most recent updates:  
> -few words have been replaced with more suitable definitions  
> -few mistakes corrected  
> -there wasn't much else worth the mention - my English was on point, most of the time

**Chapter 09 – Benevolence  
Theme Song: P.O.D. – Beautiful (Acoustic Version at SiriusXM)**

I hear the shot inside the restrooms. Something has knocked me out, it smashed me to the ground. A warm feeling around my abdomen soaks through my t-shirt. Must’ve raged too hard, this time. Nathan keeps shouting at me while I can’t move a fucking muscle. He shakes my shoulders and hence the warmth around my belly starts to feel so wet. Outside the restrooms I can hear students running away or screaming. Footsteps bang on the dirty tiled ground. Sounds like the cracking of porcelain. Small dust particles rise as I’m breathing out and they tickled my nose. My jaw slowly opens a little gap by itself and I feel blood slowly leaving from the tip of my tongue. I’m dying. No, open your damn eyes! Focus. Behind the very last stall, I suppose, there’s a poor little girl hiding. Oh my, I’ve just recognize her. The silhouette, her outline. I knew it once! Nathan walks in circles and paces back and forth with his hands waving about. I wouldn’t recognize his shitface, after all. But I know the poor girl hiding and crying... an old friend and she came back? C’mon wake up! Get your fucking ass up!

Shit, I destroyed too much with my sharp tongue. The door behind me bangs open. Whatever girl is hiding behind that stall, I won’t ever find out who she is. I’ve got some spare minutes left to think… or maybe seconds. The back of my head tingles… Rachel? Is that… I feel your closeness again? Searching for so long and now you’re here? You are not dead, you’ve just abandoned me like anyone else. Among the blur that my eyes perceive, it is hard to understand what’s going on. I guess, I see stepprick heard the shot and has entered the restrooms eventually. He kneels down to check my heartbeat, which I can still hear and feel concurrently. Very weak but… I’m still there. Come on, David! Hurry up! I’m still among the living… I’m not there for you maybe-- ah shit, I dunno. Teardrops, I can hear them thumping really loud because my ear is pressed tightly to the ground. Tip, tap, tip, tap... someone’s here and really sad. From my forehead, some strands of my blue hair slide down and cover my vision. The blur becomes narrower. My eyesight is surrounded by some sort of dark aura. Hell, get me out of here! I’ve got so much to live for. Rachel’s voice? I can hear her again. The clear sound of her voice never was so close. I’m between two worlds. One of them is moving slower and slower and the other world becomes more and more audible. All this while I hear tears crashing on the ground like raindrops. Since my eyes are tinder-dry, I’m sure it’s the poor girl’s tears which are falling. The rainmaker’s solace. David do something! He… he decides to grab Nathan instead. What are you doing? Stop it, I’m… bleeding out here.

The dark circle around my vision grows bigger. Fuck no. I can’t hear anymore. The world is muted. My eyes become wearier. I’m leaving. I guess, I’ll enter hell, or what? It’s dark. I’m alone. I can neither hear nor see a thing. Just give me _something_ … anything that would be great. What is this? My eyes reopen just a tiny bit. Back inside the world where Nathan apparently had shot me. A blue butterfly leaves this place. The quick flutters and blue appearance makes me sad. For only once I wish, I could’ve changed one thing in my life. Nothingness… everything is over. My thoughts remain. I hear someone’s breath. He says my name. William! Where are you? Dad! Why can’t I speak. I’m only sensing his presence. My way to hell with you? Please, never leave me again! Dad?! Dad!

I hear an accident. Squealing wheels and a crash…

Oh shit! Another hallucination. I hear a truck honking in the far distance. I’m in the shower. I’m in our dorms and I’m okay. I can barely hold my balance steadily. Jesus, my mind has gone too far this time. It can’t be that I blackout evermore and forget where I was. I mean, what the hell? What was that? I relived Chloe’s death and… and her thoughts, too. Were those her final thoughts? I can’t trust this shit. I’m certain, that the Real-Max’s feelings are slowly seeping through and reach my mind. Strange… all other visions I had were… like… very future oriented but inside of _my_ head. However, this one felt so recent and true. Just as if it has happened in a fraction of a second. Worst thing of all, I remember the feeling of the cold bullet inside her abdomen. I want to go back to you, Chloe. Damn I miss you. For crying out loud, what is wrong with me?

The self-written tattoos aren’t that easy to remove. I think that it’s better to wait for them to fade. Grr, they just don’t want to go away that easy. Hmm yes, the warm water feels so good around my skin. I could use my next ‘mental enema’ after this shitty vision – still need a better name for this – but this warm shower, too, does a great job of massaging my head. Suddenly I hear something squeaking. Someone uses the faucet and washes their face. My water stops immediately. The acoustic level in the bathroom fell to zero. I hear someone’s breath. She utters a sigh.

“Hey! Water?” I nag quietly behind the curtain from my shower stall. Just at the same time, I’ve heard Kate clearing her throat and splashing some water in her face. “Max?” Kate startles and turns the faucet again. Cold water shoots from above and spreads all over my skin. The ice-cold water makes me cringe and shiver instantly. I stop the water and grab my towel. I’m as clean as a new pin. Wrapping it around my naked body, I can see all the bones even through the towel itself. Ribs, thorax, collar bone… ulna and radius in my arms. Creepy, even in the deepest gaps between my bones are hidden notes. Well, they all describe the same. But, something catches my eye. A written note on my heel of the hand. Instead of tightening the towel around my torso, I decide to contemplate the note. “The red miracle” it reads. My half-tightened towel slowly slips to the bottom and drops on the tiled ground. Kate opens the curtain, although I’m entirely naked. “God, I’m so… you look… miserable.” I lower my hand and see Kate dropping her gaze to the ground. Ashamed. Yeah, I know I’ve been better sweetheart. I take my towel off the ground and rub my hair with it. I don’t give a damn that she sees me like… this. Kate doesn’t move at all. From what I can tell, she’s thinking about something to cheer me up. Yet, the look of my skeleton body seemed to have stunned her ability to speak. I grab my chicks tee off the hook and squeeze myself into it. Wow, it’s so damn big. ‘Squeezing’ is the wrong word for this. No surprise, Max. Kate looks at me again and tries to speak,

“Max, I--. We really need to talk, okay?” I didn’t except that kind of an answer. “What is it?” I ask her. “I’m sorry for…” she waves about a little to buy some time, “ _this_ here… it’s still early in the morning and I want to ask you, if you wanna hang out at a better place, later?” Early in the morning, she says? What? I fell asleep… like four hours ago, no shit! “What time is it?” I’m curious. Kate quickly answers me, “Eight o’clock in… about a minute. Look, I don’t--” – “It’s 8am?” Really? Wasn’t that the same time, when I woke up? Time really fucks my life. “Yes, we’re still in the morning. And after yesterday’s incident there’re no classes at Blackwell. So, rise and shine… and get away from here.” – “How did I get _here,_ then?” I ask her while leaving the shower stall.  I grab my toothbrush from my bag and start brushing my teeth. Kate has won some energy and talks normally, now.

“You, denied medical treatment. And they let you go at own risk… that’s that,” Kate answers. So that’s why I woke up here instead of the psychiatry? It was that easy? I think that Dr. Jacoby wasn’t in charge of me. I guess the Prescott family hasn’t found a suspect for Nathan’s suicide, yet. Or was I just brought inside a regular hospital? Forget it! Before I deduce the wrong things, I should take care of myself. “Kate, I’ll hang out with you, later, aight?” I try to smile. Dang, I feel the pain and contort my face. I can’t smile right now, although I’m trying. Kate realizes my attempt to crack a smile. She almost bumps into me and hugs me tightly. Urgh, she really got some strength in her arms. But it’s wonderful being back and feeling her gained strength.

I glance at Victoria. She’s leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom. I can’t trust my eyes. She has marks on her right arm. Has she cut herself? What happened to her? She’s pissed as is well known. I can prove it… because I know her pissed off face well enough. “Stupid bitches,” she says really angrily and pulls her sleeve down until her red lines disappear. “What’s the matter, this time?” Kate confronts her. Victoria doesn’t respond and walks away. Kate scratches her head confused and turns back to me, “Drama queens… I think it happened a lot to us, recently.” – “Where do you even want to hang out?” I want to know. “Get dressed and meet me at the entrance of the boys’ dorm,” Kate answers, “And Max…?” – “Hmm?” Kate takes a deep breath, “Please open the door if someone wants to help and be there for you, alright?” I don’t answer her. What shall I say? With a mild smile, she turns around and leaves. She stops, ponders a little and talks while leaving the bathroom, “We will make friends with the new student from abroad.”

So, it’s 8am and I had two very long visions. One of them was terrifying and the other one soothing. The terrifying vision was sadly realistic, whereas the soothing vision was undoubtedly akin to a sweet dream. If only I had some control over the things that I have to see or endure. Well, I spit out the frothy tooth paste and rinse out my mouth. As I raise my head to look into the blotchy mirror, I see that somebody has written with lipstick onto the glass. Phew, luckily not a link. What does it read?

STAY AWAY MAX

No link but nonetheless a threat against me. Stay away from what? Sanity? I leave the bathroom and try to avoid eye contact with anybody. Just stare to the ground and get back to Maximus-Abyss. It’s all gonna be fine there. I open the door to my room, when something new has caught my eye. Someone was here and erased the gossip on my slate. It reads something different,

I’m stronger than all of you!

And with another color somebody else has written a little slant,

I’m feeling guilty for what happened to you.

Uhm, that’s nice. Two guys apparently do care about me. I enter my room with a better feeling in my gut. It’s very dark in here. I walk towards the windows. And… God said, there’ll be light. I open the blinds until the dusty dirty glass becomes visible. Argh, God’s light is always painful. At least my eyes are better in adapting to the light, now. Wow, I just see, Kate and I really tidied up my room, yesterday. And after my return from the hospital, I obviously had redone my rage, but some stuff is still tidied and untouched. I should grab my clothes and give Chloe a call. Shit, even my wardrobe is a damn mess. I don’t know what’s used or fresh. Ah shucks, let’s get into my daily lame-ass outfit. Jeans, tee and boring jacket. And a quick look on my phone. Where’s Chloe’s number? I thought I had asked her for the number of hers. Who are those people? That’s not my contact list? I use the number from the most recent messages, to call her back. She almost picks up immediately,

“God Max, where are you? I’m waiting here at our windmill,” – “Chloe, how did you get my number? I thought it was I, who saved your number.” I want to find out. “You passed out while talking to Joyce, at the table. Then… I just… swapped our phones. I _knew_ that something was going to change. Max please, don’t leave me alone here.” So, oh yeah… this isn’t my phone. And since she knows her own number she simply wrote the messages to herself from _my_ phone. “Max, are you there?” oh man, I forgot that I don’t have all time in the world. “Chloe… I’ll try to convince Kate and bring her with,” I try to explain. I think, the more friends the merrier it’ll be. Kate is a blessing - a good soul - and Chloe my significant other. “So how long will it take?” she asks. “About two hours. Chloe, I don’t know what exactly is going on, again. I need to find myself.” I hope she understands, it’ll--, “Okay, as long as you do this, I’ll get something from our house. Maybe Joyce remembers anything or has the slightest idea, what has happened. Trust me, I’ll tell you everything that happened.” Strange, I can’t finish my thoughts? She interrupts me… what’s the problem? “You hear me Max?” Chloe waits for her answer. “Eh… yeah, sure thing!” I try to keep up. “You sound stressed and down… Please, don’t forget me, alright?” She hangs up fast. Seems, as if I’ve really lost all my old feeling about time. Being superior.

Yesterday… Monday… what has happened there? I tried to get my answers on what had happened to William. And Joyce needed some time to answer. However, I never heard her answer because I had left this world, shortly afterwards. The unholy time fragment thingy, in which I had to brutally murder Chloe, and she her dad. My, this is painful to remember. Phew, it was just a time fragment, nothing important or real. Get your shit together.

After all, I really want to know what my taste in music has changed to. I step to my bookshelves and inspect. “The Notwist” oh yeah. Great band but never thought I would own some of their albums. “Frames” okay I skip “In Via” for my mind’s sake. What else do we have here. Gee, I remember nothing of it. Where is “Alt J” or all the other albums I’ve been keeping with me over the years? “Muse” and almost all their albums are collected and stacked. Whew, not now for my mind’s sake. Oh, cool. “Bonobo with Animal Magic” I knew some songs but never thought that I might own an album within an alternate reality.

Dana stands in the doorway and knocks quietly. I wouldn’t have heard her, if it hadn’t been dead silence inside my room, all the time. She doesn’t speak, so I look at her and hope that helps. “Hey, Max,” God, how did she…? I remember her crying on the floor when Nathan killed himself, but she definitely has changed, too. And I mean, not good. She looks abysmal and I know that she might feel abysmal just as much. Her face looks deadly pale and she by herself looks so--, “Max?” she interrupts my thoughts. I can’t think right now, my life isn’t under control of rewind-powers, anymore.

I quickly catch up, “Sorry Dana, I didn’t mean to--” – “Two grumpy bozos snooped around and walked into your room,” Dana answers bummed. I have a look around. Well, it’s still a mess, but. Oh shit, they grabbed my laptop. My bag is still there, for some reason. I try to speak to her, again, “Look Dana, you wanna hang out… and do some cool stuff?” Good grief! I’m worse without my powers than ever. “I just want to tell you. Because, there’s no one else whom you could trust. I’m sorry,” she walks away. Sounds like she doesn’t make much use of her voice, just like Evan has mentioned. Albeit, he had me in his mind. Anyhow, the same **clearly** applies to Dana. Oh man, if I had my _normal_ powers, I’d try to brighten her mood. Poor thing. I watch her walking back to her dorm room. My goodness, she can’t even walk straight or, even less upright. At the same time, I see both Taylor and Courtney waiting in front of Victoria’s door. Still enslaved, right? Yup, here are things that never ever change.

I pace back to my desk. Yeah, they stole my laptop, but for what purpose? Just when I think about it, I’ve totally forgotten what I’ve seen, after I escaped the last time fragment. It shocked me and it concerned Nathan and I. But what? Whomever they may give my laptop… or perhaps they just stole it to make some money with it. I don’t like any of it. Maybe I should ask Kate. She knew a lot about the vortex-party. It could also be that there were more than only one vortex-club event. I should turn ‘vortex-party’ into its own bad joke. ‘Cortex-Party’, because I remember jack shit! I suppose, Nathan had drugged me and tried some disgraceful things with me. While I’m trying to get everything together, I just realize that I can’t receive messages by my parents, any longer. Oh… I must get to Chloe. But I don’t want to leave Kate behind.

Hey, if I can’t use my diary to write my memories down, I can still use my skin. The messages will fade and aren’t existent, once I’m back in 2015. Still, I must set a high priority to my mental condition. Do merry things, period! I grab my bag, look inside and find the polaroid from the burning horizon and my camera. Alright, where is my diary. Look around, Max. Oh, right next to Lisa. Teddy’s head lays near the diary. Sigh, maybe I should take him to Kate and ask her, if she knows someone to fix it. If I can’t cuddle with Chloe at night, why not him? I pick his head up and search for the body in this mess. Wowser, I’ve just realized how much things are piled up randomly. Oh… ye, I see his leg showing up under my dirty clothes. Gotcha, my friend. Holding his head and body in both my hands makes me sick. What has this place become? Everything worked out without Kate or Chloe being endangered. Now, it’s my Teddy and Nathan who bit the dust. And when I’m just thinking about my childhood… it was so much luck that I had survived swallowing Teddy’s eye up. If the door to my room had been closed, things would be different… very different. I give my old friend a tight hug. I feel his gratitude. What do you mean, old friend? You wan’a hug again? Come here, we will fix you and soon, everything is going to be fine. I stuff him into my bag and close it.

I leave my room and receive a message on my… - I mean - Chloe’s phone. Unknown Number says, “we know you were part of the vortex-club incident. we know your stepdad in charge of security. we know you. don’t fuck with us!” Oh, shit! Chloe is interconnected with Nathan and me? I cannot believe this crap but now let’s get to Kate. Chloe’s phone shows 8:30am. Enough time to increase sanity.

\--------  
A chime echoes in my head. I feel how I change the position.  
\--------

I’ve got a bad headache. Yet, I can still feel my recently cleaned body. At least, something. I’m lying on my couch. Dressed in my tee with chicks on it. The blinds are closed all over. I think, I get the feeling of this. The stereo is turned on and runs… uhm, I don’t know this song. I watch to my left to the stereo and look at the description displayed on the tiny screen. It’s too small. Must get up and walk towards the display. It reads “P.O.D. with Beautiful” and seems to be an acoustic version. I never listened to them. Who are they even? I jump back onto my couch and draw a huge breath. At this moment I wish, the strings on my guitar aren’t cut. I could back this nice song. I can pick out A-major, already. Oh man, why’s my guitar wrecked? Everything turned to shit. But, I can certainly tell that I can’t waste more of my precious time. Fine, let’s get some shit done! The soft blueish glow around the stereo’s display is enough to find my way through the messy room. I grab a pen while getting the blinds open again. Wow, I don’t know where I got this song but it surely deserves a second run. Whatever, I start writing on my right arm:

-dana sad  
-pulse-powers  
-letters of despair  
-how i leave hospital?  
-chloe at vortex-party  
-kate vortex-party  
-student from abroad  
-william (what happened?)  
-windmill?  
-red miracle?  
-visions of other lives  
-other’s thoughts

Okay, so far so good. As yet, this is all what I can remind myself of. I’m also going to master my ciphering skills to write all this into the diary with no negative consequences for 2015. Oh my, I totally forgot to mention the most important one:

-burning horizon

Still I must find out its meaning and purpose. It was Chloe who took the photograph and pinned it on her wall inside a time fragment. Outside a time fragment - as far as I can tell - I’ve got _no_ immediate control over anybody or anything. Except for my own stuff like the diary and specific polaroid images and maybe still time travelling. For instance, the “Fire Walk with me” image was a specialty. I’m inspecting it, at the moment and I am slumped, yet again. Despite it’s still _there_ , I utterly disappeared from the mirror’s reflection. I don’t understand. What about my first selfie from Jefferson’s class? Oh well, if the polaroid wasn’t sucked up into so much blood, I could tell whether I was still on there. Shit this polaroid is absolutely useless. I toss it away.

Wait a minute, I think, I took another selfie on the hallway. Yeah, I’ve found it in my bag. It still exists. Although, no matter how hard I try to change something, people and obstacles remain the same throughout the day. On the next day, my choices seem to have taken effect. And it all depends whether or not I’m able to break the afore mentioned day’s sordid rules. Monday was the most gruesome experience, thus far. Jefferson’s disgraceful way of strangling me is beyond anything I’ve ever experienced. Although I hate this piece of shit to death, I wonder what had happened to him after the police had taken him in. Imprisoned beyond any doubt!

So, some things do make sense and are rather comprehensible. But the photograph of the burning horizon is amazing but… _senseless_. I was able to take it with me and keep it up to here, whereas my self-taken picture from the time fragment has never been printed in this reality. Remember? The floating roof stuck in mid-air because that’s how time fragments rule? I take a longer note beneath my upper arm next to the ‘burning horizon’ note:

-Chloe’s polaroid real - not mine

Just at the same time, I look at my wall of photos near the bed and could cry instantly. The floating roof image is placed at the ceiling. How? No wait, I understand. Now it all makes sense. This makes my last note redundant. I can scratch it through. Apparently, I must fight against the Real-Max, whom I will meet in the psychiatry, later again. It gives me the feeling that I’m not supposed to be here. This would actually explain the Real-Max’s negative attitude against me. The song on the stereo has finished. I turn it off. Meanwhile I can see the album from P.O.D. added on my bookshelf. “Murdered Love” along with six new strings for my guitar. Murdered love is beyond true. ‘Beyond true’ in another reality but not here. Sweet, the new guitar strings can only have been Kate’s doing. I would believe her since I trust nobody else on this weird Tuesday morning.

I form my hand into a fist and I concentrate. I wish so much to find out all this, in an instant. No searching, no being nosy, no snooping around, no nothing. I want to be with the people I love and…

I pulse through time again. I don’t feel any pain, there is no humming of the whales, nothing.

I’m into someone’s dorm room and my clothing hasn’t changed. The blur has disappeared and I see both Kate and the student from abroad crystal clear. Kate hugs him and rests with her head on his big chest. He smiles and pets her shoulder. Her necklace sways, the golden cross spins slowly. They both haven’t noticed me, yet. The student from abroad talks quietly to her, “Although I can’t help you out, I want to say thank you.” – “Thank you? Are you kidding? You understand how horrible this is?” Kate rejects his cuddle for a moment. “Oh, I didn’t... I didn’t mean to…” he gives in. “It’s okay, it’s just… _this_ makes me so anxious. And you’ve never seen me being desperate!” she deescalates their conversation. True words Kate, I know how desperate you can possibly be. How can’t they spot me? It’s just the same. The same like in Nathan’s room, before he ended himself. He didn’t react neither to Chloe’s nor Evan’s nor my presence. It must have something to do with the pulsing. Kate gives him a bear hug again and says, “Thanks for giving her new guitar strings. I want to see her smiling again. How did she react?” the guy smirks as he hears her question. Oh man, he’s so creepy. “No problem, I do this for us, of course. She’s said nothing because she was… eh sleeping. So, I decided to turn on some music and play some of… my music I wanted to borrow her.” Kate looks up to him. Damn, she’s like a minion next to him. “Why did you do that?” she wants to know from him. He reacts calm, “I think it’s great to wake up to music. That’s all.” To be honest, what he has just said was even creepier than me waking up to his music and being confused where all the stuff on my bookshelf came from.

“I wanted to say ‘thank you’… because you were there for me when… when--… everyone else was partying or clubbing. I needed someone, so much. You’ve took me… up… here and made the stay at Blackwell possible. I didn’t expect this much shit to happen, though. God appreciates this. I’m sure,” the German finishes his interrupted initial thought. He stammers a tad. I think, Kate concerned reaction has unsettled him. His English has suffered the same. But Kate chuckles, “Don’t be nervous. I’m just worried. She’s been through some real shit, y’know? I should’ve taken care of her at the party…” Oh my, none of you has any idea… sigh. She stops embracing him and says, “Excuse me for being such a mess right now. Shit’s hitting the fan everywhere I go. I’ll head to the boys’ dorm entrance and meet her. Wait here, okay?” – “Fine.”

I’m afraid of moving a muscle and blow my cover. I’m confused that my time-pulse neither hurt nor made a painful sound. The student from abroad walks towards me. I notice that I’m standing in front of his window. Obviously, he looks right through me and talks to himself. “The world needs more of you, Kate,” he quietly says to himself. Fuck, he’s not what I remember. Another damn hypocrite. Fucking pretender. You won’t hurt Kate, I swear to you, asshole! He leans a bit forwards. I’ve almost moved my hand to slap his face, but it seems as if he just stares into the woods through the window. Then he says something that made cringe me a little, “What does ‘shit hit the fan’ mean?” Got an easy answer for you: the person right in front of me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decisions made by Max (their importance/weight is kept secret):
> 
> -She decided to join Kate to have a better day  
> -She considered, showing Teddy to Kate and ask her if anyone may fix it  
> -She took new important notes on her arm, to help her keeping track of things  
> -She resolved upon distrusting the weird student from abroad even more
> 
>  
> 
> “Memorize Max” (Events or occurrences everybody took note of, including Max):
> 
> -Max found a note on her heel of the hand saying “The red Miracle”  
> -Kate saw Max’s meager weak bodily state  
> -Visions experienced by Max seemed not to affect time – thus time being in a frozen state  
> -Victoria held a grudge against Max and/or Kate  
> -Kate mentioned an earlier event, when Max hadn’t opened the door, and let Max know, that she should open her door the next time  
> -A note in the bathroom was written and addressed to Max – written with a lipstick  
> -Max had new notes on her dorm slate  
> -Max found out about a so-called “windmill”  
> -Chloe didn’t want to be left alone after the events of the previous day  
> -Max discovered her changed choice and taste in music  
> -Max laptop was stolen according to Dana  
> -On Chloe’s phone, there was a threat  
> -Max wasn’t on the “Fire Walk with me” polaroid  
> -The photograph from the time fragment was on Max’s wall of photos  
> -The German student got fresh strings for Max


	10. Cobwebs on our windmill

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tuesday morning and a hell of a lot to do. Max determines to distrust the student from abroad and wants Kate to distrust him the same. In the meantime, she tries to meet with Chloe but bumps into the savior policeman Mark from yesterday’s hostage rescue. Chloe can wait… the windmill can wait, too? Max takes her first few baby steps in the only week of 2013 where she can start all over again.

**Chapter 10 – Cobwebs on our windmill  
Theme Song: Gorillaz – Feel Good Inc.**

My head, urgh! Pulsing back wasn’t the best idea. It hurt the same way it always did. Gee, how would you ever master your badass superpowers, if you kept up being such a rash bonehead? Now get your thoughts together Max. So, I was worrying about Kate and the danger the German dude could be for her. Pulsing is only painless, when not thinking about anything distressing. Wonderful, the traumatic humming of the whales was almost forgotten. I’ll give this crap one short abbreviation. PPD. PissPukeDefecation… at least I’ve tried to speak coarse. There are simply no words to describe this unbearable pain. My lids open to a small gap. What a relief. I seem to be at the right place, after all.

I’m back on my couch… I get the rhythm of this pulsing and spacing technique. I’ve teleported myself yet another time. The song by P.O.D. has resumed and finally I got an answer for this bullshit time travelling stuff. I’ve escaped the German’s dorm room by pulsing backwards. As simple as that. If you’d ask me, moving in time and space sounds awesome, right. You wouldn’t trade with me for anything. Back to where I was… well, deep inside, I felt myself hitting some sort of heavy barrier. A time boundary, so to speak. I remember passing at least half a dozen of those. By all appearance, it means that 2013 has time checkpoints stuck in it, which 2015 hasn’t. After ‘breaking through’ them, I can’t go back and change stuff.

And about changes, oh man… I’ve got one big day of chances ahead. If I mess up somewhere at the end, I’ll loop back and the entire day resets. But remember Victoria and the German student? Both vanished under my very eyes, on Monday’s second attempt. They disappeared at two very different fixed points in time mind you. And now I’m here again, back on my couch after trying to get farther back to the showers, where Kate has found me. Attempt has failed, no kidding. Not feasible, Max. You decided not to answer Kate’s advice in the showers. The advice to open a door for the helping hand. Just like, when I ignored Warren at the entrance of Blackwell… Anyhow, this is my first go within this Tuesday. Hella lot of opportunity.

I look to my left and think about the song, all over. At the same time, I see a flash drive inside my stereo. It is my own music, apparently and not the German’s. It strikes me, that I liked his band and searched for more on the web and stuffed it on my own flash drive. I wonder how many other songs made their way on this flash drive because I liked what others heard. Man, I don’t fucking know. Everything _could_ be. Get your ass up and get dressed. I grab my bag and leave my gloomy dorm room. For the first time in my life, I determine to lock my door. While I’m locking the door, I realize that someone has also written on my slate in the top-left corner.

you are versatile

We all are. Thanks for the compliment, idiot. Taylor and Courtney have left Victoria’s door. Good golly, she cranked up the volume. I hear the door wiggling in its doorframe. Let’s blow, before Victoria’s door pukes in my direction because I’m not clothed in her mandatory dress code. I leave the girls’ dorms and take the stairs to the boys’. Back at the boys’ dorm entrance. I watch to my left and fuck, what the hell? Two armed stationary policemen are guarding Nathan’s door. What’s wrong here? Yeesh, they didn’t even have the time to clean the bloody footprints. You want the students to walk over a dead student’s blood? That’s crazy. So, where is Kate? Didn’t she say that she’ll wait for me here? Well then, let’s check the dorm descriptions to make out the newcomer. Oh, somebody really had to write a lot on his small slate,

Hemingway once wrote, "The world's a fine place and worth fighting for." I agree with the second part. - William Sommerset

Wait a second. Wasn’t that out of the outrageous movie “Se7en”? Good grief! Kate, you know what he might be up to, when he quotes from this movie? An antichrist murdering defenseless people in God’s name. If there’s anything as bad as Arcadia Bay, it would be the world out of that movie. Our mundane world. What’s this? Kate’s violin? She’s in there playing along! I press my right ear against the door. I close my eyes and try to perceive the melody. Tough luck, she has just finished playing. What a pity. I merely heard one or two harmonic notes and I could stick here forever… with my ear pressed to the door until it hurts.

The German guy… gosh he needs a name. Alfred… yeah, I’ll call him this in my mind. Where was I? Alfred chuckles and talks to her, “That was great. Next time you’ll cover one of my favorite songs?” – “Which one?” Kate asks him merrily. Alfred answers instantly, “Beautiful…” ah, I knew he would call this one, “…by Apocalyptica. They all play the cello, but I think you can simply cover this with your badass violin.” okay, never mind. Kate puts her instrument aside and… silence for a second.

“I think I’ll go to the entrance now and wait for Max,” she explains. But there’s so much silence. What are they doing in there. My ear starts to hurt and sweat. Maybe I’m pushing it too hard against the door. Kate utters a sigh and continues, “Have you talked to her, yet?” – “Not, _yet_ but I have seen her, yesterday. She walked into Blackwell. She looked… lost and confused. And we all know… that has happened after that--what… has happened.” Alfred answers her in his half-broken English. Thanks for the wannabe compassion, asshole! Kate sighs again, “Y’know, she could really use some friends. So please, don’t try any weird moves once she’s here, you understand?” – “Yeah,” Alfred agrees. Shit, my ear hurts! I can sense my heartbeat via the wooden veneer from the door. “I know this must be hard for a guy like you, who’s trying to help others, all day,” Kate has concluded. After this she adds, “Oh man, ruining her book was such a mistake. Wish I could change it,” What book? Did I borrow her one of my books? The Kraut’s not responding. Oh, he repeats his sentence, “Although I can’t help you out, I want to say thank you.”

“Hey you! Step away from that door!” one nervous police officer yells at me. Are you serious? He walks towards me. I step away from the door. His heavy body thumps on the ground and makes the floor shake. Even the door vibrates. It’s your mind, Max, just hallucinations. He’s not that heavy, alright? Nonetheless, his posture tells everything. One wrong word, Max, and you are screwed. Man, I know this face, it’s the spiteful policeman from, yesterday. “Didn’t you hear me? Go away from the door and mind your own business!” he threatens me. Do something Max, fast. I should wait until he understands who he is threatening. “You! Again! I knew you’re up to something… Cornfield, right?” wow, he really is a douchebag. By far, one of the biggest assholes I’ve ever met, Jefferson excluded. So, what, now? Tell him your real name and order him to calm the fuck down or keep up the silence. Or should I carefully tell him that I was kidnapped, yesterday? “This is my last warning Miss…!” he threatens me more and takes one step more into my direction. Before he turns violent, I should-- “What’s…” the door behind me is opened by Kate and Alfred. Kate assumedly has just started asking, what’s the matter.

“Max, are you making friends with the police,” Kate smiles. “Spare me!” the wicked officer grumbles, changes his posture back to… _normal_ and heads back to the other police officer. The other one has been talking to someone on his phone, all the time. Thanks for not helping me out, jerk. You all are ruthless douches without the slightest amount of mercy. Why is the police so stressed, recently? I turn myself back to Kate and Alfred, “Sorry… guess, I found your room,” I try to make this look innocent. “What was his problem?” Alfred wonders. He needs a more applicable name. Siegbert! “Max, you there?” Kate asks waving around with her hand before my face. Siegbert tries to smile, though he seems to struggle with something. “Come in, why staying here?” Kate suggests. “Have you eavesdropped? Be honest with us,” she also wants to know. I’ll avoid her question, “I don’t want to be here. Don’t like the police,” while showing with my hand in his direction. He hasn’t stopped frowning, yet.

“Can you lock the door, please? I’ll leave my violin in your room, as long as we are on the road,” Kate asks Siegbert. Gosh, this name makes all of this so damn funny. “Sure, I basically lock doors behind, anyways,” he responds, walks to his desk and grabs his keys. I’ve just realized how tidy and clean it looks in there. And also, darn empty. Boring dude, all the way. Still don’t trust him. We should get to the Two Whales Diner. And as soon as he walks away, goes to the toilets or leaves to call somebody, I’ll tell Kate to watch out and to distrust him. I’m scared that he will hurt her.

She’s a good soul and doesn’t need to be endangered again. “Alright, where do you want to hang out, Max? Whoa, you are early. How fast did you change?” Kate reacts surprised. “Two Whales Diner,” I answer them both. “Yeah I know that diner. Got my main apartment somewhere down there. I hired a car for some time, Max,” Siegbert adds. Yeah, I heard all this before. But now it’s _real_ , right? Asides, he’s got an apartment and a dorm room, extra? Superrich snob! This guy reminds me too much of Nathan. We don’t need yet another weirdo who endangers my friends.

We are leaving the dorms. Blackwell looks so dead and empty. I think, I had some thoughts about Blackwell being empty. Beautiful academy with no students to teach, except for me. A poltergeist hovering around in the hallways. “Max, where’re you headn’?” Kate asks while I’m walking towards the street. Shit, I lost my way due to my wonderful chain of thought. Siegbert tries to talk with us, “I think it’s a great idea to get away from here.” We’ve reached the parking lot. Siegbert has slowed down his pace for us. I remember him literally running away. Obviously, Kate must’ve told him to decelerate for our sake. One car on the parking beeps unlocked. Good ‘ol lady, Warren would normally drive you. Now it’s the German’s property… Siegbert starts the engine and shifts into the reverse gear. Goodness, the dampers are worn off like hell. My butt hurts, already. For the first time ever, I’m thankful for the German’s help. To escape Blackhell academy.

“So how did you meet each other?” I’m curious. I really mean it. How did Kate and he become friends? How did he get here? “Mind, if I won’t answer?” Kate evidently asks the German dude. “Sure, please give me a minute. I’m not skilled with driving and talking, at the same time,” he answers composedly. After half a minute, he draws a deep breath and talks,

“End of July, I wrote to some universities here in the states, but none of them accepted my application because I haven’t finished the junior high grade. So, I posted my concerns to some blogs and Kate had answered me. And that’s… the story.” Kate instantly steps in, “Not quite the full story, though. Since _you_ Max, warned me about the vortex-party, I stayed in my dorm room and prepared my homework. However, on one evening, when all Blackwell students were partying, I got very stupid messages from a German. Haha, he was so nervous and cute,” Kate laughs, Siegbert smiles and chuckles at the wheel and hides his face with his left hand embarrassed. “And since then, we didn’t stop chatting. I told him to get his driving license as fast as possible, because he was almost done with it, and… then I asked Principal Wells,” Kate goes on. The Kraut concludes, “And he agreed to an an-- annual stay here in Oregon. Though he couldn’t offer me a dorm room, then. I also had to choose between two schools. High school for design in Germany or Blackwell Academy in some hicktown, where nobody knows my face.”

Jesus Christ, this is how he made his way here. But I still want to know his reasons for coming here, “Why did you leave Germany?” I ask him friendly. Siegbert looks rather sad after my question. “Can I tell her?” Kate offers him a little worried. He says ‘yes’ really quiet. “He had been abandoned and wanted to blow the cobwebs away by moving away from town. And it was I who responded to his messages. It was I who took care of his mind. Max, up to this day I’m pondering on, what if I ignored your warnings, and visited the vortex-party, regardless. Our friend wouldn’t be here,” she explains everything. “Thanks once again for this,” Siegbert shows his gratitude and looks over his shoulder to give her a smile. He’s wearing his glasses again. Creepy, why is he changing his pair, all the time? “I’m proud, you are there. But, I’m regretting the day, where Nathan--…” – “We don’t want to talk about that,” the German interrupts her. Yeah, good point you’ve got there. I got enough answers, anyway. And best of it, they are valid and comprehensible.

We’ve reached the Diner’s parking lot. Siegbert folds his glasses and puts them away. He subsequently asks us, “Hey, can you recommend this diner?” Déjà-vu for the win. “The diner is terrific!” I try to iterate my answer from my second Monday-run-through-attempt-thingy. “Terrific?” Siegbert doesn’t understand that word. “Awesome, great, swell, wunderbar!” Kate helps and laughs. Yeah, ain’t such a bad idea to learn German since they had played a crucial role in our past century. In _our_ history. “Someone wrote stuff on my slate, today. You know what’s going on?” I ask both of them. I see the impatience. They want to get their breakfast. But before we leave this old wreck, I want to know, if they know. “I wrote, ‘you are versatile’. I gave you the P.O.D. album and some fresh guitar strings. But you were asleep.” Siegbert explains. I think he should get a last name, as well. How about Dongle? Siegbert Dongle. Sounds perfect!

Kate laughs, “You don’t know ‘terrific’, but ‘versatile’… no biggie?” Mister Dongle smiles, and chucks his pair of glasses inside the central console. With thumb and forefinger, he digs into his eyes. His face cringes. “Everything fine, St--…” – “I’m good, Kate. Can we all here agree to something important?” Siegbert interrupts Kate. Dang she has almost said his name. What was it going to be? Stefan? Typical German name. “Go ahead,” Kate opens the door because the burning heat inside of this car rises unbearably high. “I _don’t want_ to talk about yesterday. I _don’t want_ to talk about my shit. I’m here to forgive and forget,” Siegbert wants us to know. Kate smiles a bit and says, “Ah, fair enough. How ‘bout you, Max?” The German dude looks deep into my eyes. Creepy as fuck, I change my view to Kate on the backseat. “Kate, I really want to share something with you,” – “I think it’s between you both. I’ll stay here in my car and call back a friend of mine,” the German answers quite reasonable.

Kate distrusts my idea to talk to her in private. I get out of the car. It’s so weird, seeing Warren’s putative car parking at the Diner. Without Warren being present. I’m afraid that we’ll see more different things like those in the next few days. “What is it, Max, why can’t he go with us?” Kate really wants to make us friends. We enter the Diner, I look behind and see the German’s silhouette inside the car on his phone. He’s not a big liar, mind you. Kate turns a little impatient. She’s getting nervous but I try to ignore it. Damn, I’ve never experienced her this vivid. My changes really turned her wit and temper upside down. Skyrocket high however compared to the old Kate, I had to take care of. I stop at the notorious corner both where Chloe and I had sat, all along. Joyce isn’t here, today. What the fuck, it is Tuesday! Snap out of it!

Kate sits, where Chloe would’ve normally taken her seat. “So, what is it, Max? Please…” Taking a deep breath, I’ll try to say everything she needs to know. I love her and trust her in whatever reality we’re stuck in. I decide to tell her the unholy, painful truth.

“Kate, trust every word I say. I know I’ve been through a lot, but this all is supreme truth,” I exhale and think. Kate calms down and nods to agree. “Your fingers, Max,” Kate brings something to my attention. I glance down and realize my shaking hands. Thanks, now I feel it in my neck, too. Yet, I try to continue, “I’m not supposed to be here. This here isn’t my reality. All my choices will affect others and I lost control of it,” Kate doesn’t understand it and asks, “What is this going to be? Our daily life routine is spilled with choices, Max.” – “It obviously was my decision to warn you about the vortex-party. It was I who attended all the parties instead. I… do have supernatural powers.” I just… does she even trust this crap? I’ve just noticed that I had attended all vortex-parties instead of her. But why did I even go there and didn’t use the time together with her, or with Chloe? What was my point? Masochism? I’ll muse more about this later. I’ll wait for Kate’s answer.

“What _powers_?” – “Manipulating time and my current position. I saw you and the German dude hugging albeit I wasn’t there. Right? I saw your necklace swaying in the air. The cross spinning. Please, do me one favor. Don’t trust him--…” but Kate aggressively interrupts me, “Nonsense! ‘I shouldn’t trust him’ you don’t even know his name, do you? You don’t know anything about his sorrow. No one can pretend their pain! Prove that you can _manipulate_ time.” her right arms tenses as she clenches her hand to a fist. Why is she this enraged? “Max, I know you’ve been through a damn lot. I swear to God, I’ll be there for you but don’t you dare trying to get my friends out of my life! I won’t be toyed with!” I see the lighthouse in the distance. Almost a thin white stripe because it’s so far away. I need to get there, too. My phone vibrates. A message on Chloe’s phone, again. Kate awaits my answer eagerly.

“You know? I never drove in his car up to now. We didn’t listen to his music during our ten-minute drive, either. I know he’s listening to “The Dear Hunter” and before that “Kota by Bonobo”. And I only remember this because he really _has been_ here – at the diner – before. But he won’t remember it,” I reply. The German guy enters the diner. I see him looking inward. Are you afflicted to some kind of déjà-vu? Kate can’t answer. “Moreover, he quotes a little inner thought from the detective out of the movie Seven. A macabre piece of film about the seven deadly sins…,” I conclude. Sins are something important to her. I think this might convince her. Now back to my old train of thought. Why did I attempt the vortex-party? “Eh, can I join you?” Siegbert has made his way to our booth. “Yeah, I’ll… scooch over, wait,” Kate moves over and Siegbert has a seat. I look down on Chloe’s phone. What message has she – or I – received?

I FUCKING HATE EVERYTHING!. COMEe ALONE OR I FUVKING BAIL ON YOU!

Ankle-deep in shit again, Chloe? Kate asks the German, “So, you are listening to ‘The Dear Hunter’ and ‘Bonobo’?” – “Uhm, how do you know?” he reacts confused. I get up and squeeze myself out of the booth. Kate looks away from us. “Sorry, I’ve gotta go. I actually wanted to meet with a friend here and we could hang out altogether. But she has some… yeah,” I apologize cheaply and bail on _them_. When I’ve almost left the booth, I turn back and ask Siegbert for his real name. He touches Kate’s arm and tries to gain attention. She refuses and shakes her arm out of his soft grip. “What’s your name fellow Kraut?” he apparently hasn’t expected such a question. In his left palm is some sort of brown marble. With all fingers, he plays with it tensely. His red streak doesn’t protrude as much, when there is no sunlight. He doesn’t answer me. I think, I tore him away from his beloved Kate. Sorry, but no one will hurt her ever again. I’ll leave you here. Kate distrusts you henceforth.

Let’s bail. Get to the lighthouse. That’s a long walk but… right, Chloe wanted me to meet at the swings. May I try to pulse to the beach or go on foot? Argh, Jesus! It’s so tough to decide. Regarding the last two minutes as a _tough choice_ , I shouldn’t fumble with my pulse powers shortly after. Gosh, the sun burns a hole in my head. It better should, because my brain really wants to escape my body. I think, Kate needs a bit alone time after all the things I’ve told her. I feel bad for the poor German. It seems likely that Kate was his only friend at Blackwell. I’m shredding friendships, now. Whoa, let’s get to Chloe. I think David has made Chloe’s life a living hell again. That might explain her weird last message. I walk across the road, heading for the beach.

I write Chloe a fast message back.

there in ten minutes

I send it and suddenly, I smash into someone. Max, you’ll never learn, right? I fall to the ground, holding Chloe’s phone tightly in my hands to prevent it from being damaged. I don’t want to use my time-powers, yet. “Gosh, I’m so sorry… Max?” a familiar voice. Somehow, I know his name, “Mark, what are you doing here?” – “I’m in charge for my last week here at Arcadia Bay. Next week I’m going to change my location to Portland,” Mark pets my arm with a humble smile on his face and picks me up from the bottom. He’s wearing a pair of mirrored sunglasses. I recognize this familiar face. He dragged me out of the dark room. The meek officer from yesterday’s interrogation in my room and from the rescue. He showed selfless care. “I’m refueling the cruiser. Got pretty dry on the road. So, what are _you_ doing out here? Aren’t you supposed to be in hospital?” Mark asks me worried. I don’t know what to answer.

“You know, I could use a break. It’s giving me delight seeing you alive and kicking. You want to keep talking inside the Diner? I’ve got something to talk about.” – “Yeah, but I’ve gotta meet someone.” I smile. Mark is a new face to me and I’m really curious about what he’s up to. I’m sure that he’s a cool and nice guy though. Sorry Chloe, need a little longer. “I make it quick but we’ll eat something, for sure!” he says and enters his patrol car and parks it next to the German’s old lady. I cross over the road and join him while getting out of his cop car. I start to believe that I’m losing so much time here, but Mark surely will tell me important things. So… sorry Chloe again. His view is fixed to the German’s hired car. “Uh man, haven’t seen such an old ride in years.” then he changes his sight to me and grins. ‘Making friends with the student from abroad’ my ass. But this guy might be worth a try as a real _friend_. “Let’s go. I know you’re short in time but… you wanna eat something, I’ll pay for us both. Damn, you look so skinny. You’ve gotta eat,” Mark invites me and folds his fancy shades. I still catch the same apprehension in his eyes, like they were in the dark room. Albeit he’s not stuffed into bulletproof vests and other armor-like things around his body.

He holds me the door open. I look at him. Black short hair, really tall – but who isn’t next to me – and damn thin, too. Famine of Oregon says hello again. The German Siegbert Dongle walks towards us and quietly says “Goodbye Max, talk to you soon.” in passing. Mark looks at me and shakes his head shortly after while getting on the barstool. “Man, this dude got an eerie accent.” – “He’s not from here,” I answer briefly. The waitress shows up behind the counter and waits for Mark to order. “Same as always?” a cute voice barely reaches my ears. “Yep, and a big mug of coffee, please. Long day ahead,” Mark turns to me on the squeaky barstool. “And you my little angel, what do you want? Don’t spare no expenses, haha,” he continues. With a diffident smile, the waitress chuckles and waits for my call. “I uhm--” I can’t think about anything tasty because my last thoughts were about Mark and the thoughts that before about Chloe.

“Make it the same and extra spicy for me, please,” he orders for us both. He cracks his knuckles. Ouch, please don’t repeat this. Someone pokes on my shoulder. It’s Kate. “I thought you’ve got unfinished business with an old friend. You know… I don’t care… but I trust you with what you’ve said. Give me a call, whenever you need me,” she says in a really bummed way. Poor Kate. I think she really liked that unholy Siegbert. “Watch your back, Kate. Take care of Dana, she didn’t neither look good nor look well,” I decide to tell her. Help syndrome needs to be gratified. Kate nods and leaves the Diner. She takes the next bus. Apparently, she told the German prick, that she wanted to go home on her own.

“You’ve got some strange friends, oh darling… Why am I joking around…?” Mark comments my last two encounters. I try to conclude, “Yesterday was pretty much… a fucked-up day,” – “That’s putting it mildly,” Mark retorts. The waitress serves him his mug of coffee, “Thank You, Miss,” and he almost empties the mug with one big sip. He moans, “Gosh, that was long overdue. I must tell you something,” and talks about whatever has been on his mind. “You are a strong girl. Yesterday’s abominable occurrences are nothing to crack jokes about. But you… Max, you gave me hope. Believe it or not, if Mister Madsen wasn’t calling us for help, I don’t know what else could’ve happened to you,” Marks fingers quiver. His left hand has grabbed the mug. The waitress serves us two big plates of yummy tasty fast food stuff. Can’t wait.

Mark bows his thanks. Man, such a polite guy won’t cross you every day. He continues while chewing on a slice of bacon, “Two students were using a private drone modified with an illegal repeater. But without that thing they wouldn’t have tried to fly above and beyond Blackwell. And luckily, they’ve spotted the abduction,” – “Mark, that’s how it was, but why are you telling me this?” I wonder. “I’m married. My wife and I, we were expecting a child. And… eh… six months ago, my wife went to a regular sonography to check our daughters condition. ‘I don’t perceive her heartbeat’ the doctor had said… and I wasn’t there because I was needed at work,” Mark squints.

Heavy stuff, but why is he telling me this? “And yesterday… seeing you helplessly… crying and strapped to the chair revived something inside of me that hasn’t been alive ever since my wife and I lost our little girl. I saw your gaze through my thick layer of glass. I was in awe of a weak girl. A gasp of awe… when I realized, that the little girl in front of me was beyond my own powers. I felt so weak under my thick layer of armor and bulletproof clothing.” Mark takes a little break and empties his mug. He moans aloud and shoves a loaded fork into his mouth.

God, I can’t tell what I’m feeling, right now. During his long story, he has kept up full eye contact. Although his eyes seem to be weary and tired all along, yesterday’s occurrence seemed to have helped him. I’m sorry for him and his mistress. Mark swallows immediately and goes on, “Every night I dreamt about the first drawn breath of a newborn and its first cry. Seeing your sudden cry of fear gave me… mental superpowers. It was like you had waken me. After our yesterday’s deployment, I fell into my bed and slept through the night with no unholy dreams. You are a miracle, Max and you gave me a new hope for Maria’s and my life. I told her about it and I guess, it helped,” he finishes. Oh my, I need an excuse for not being able to fricking respond. For I take the fork and shove this tasty stuff into my mouth. I do this even though my stomach doesn’t need food, anymore. His two long monologues killed my starvation.

Hmm, tasty. I think my brain gradually reconnects with my stomach. Maybe I can finish this heavy meal. “One more refill… of coffee… please, ma’am.” Mark lets the waitress know. “Mark, I can’t describe what’s going on in my head, at the moment,” I lie to him. To be honest, I don’t know what to say at all. Mark sighs and looks down. “I saw a doe, when I was carrying you to the ambulance…” now he really becomes a likable guy. Suddenly a thought strikes my mind, “You’re planning to begin all anew?” Oh shit, I’ve stricken a chord, haven’t I? I take another forkful of heavy fat food. This heavy themed stuff deadens appetite. Not as if I’m not used to this shit. “I came to terms with my problems, after we’ve saved you! Now I’ll bring the following to your notice: Embrace your family as long as you’ve got one. Consider there’s someone very important in your life and from one day to the other, this person ain’t there for you,” Mark lets me know.

Mark speaks on, “I heard that Mister Madsen harassed you a lot. You can think what you want about this asshole, but… if he wasn’t there… we wouldn’t talk right now. I’ll entrust you with something. He has been through war. Now married again to a mother. His stepdaughter is a wild soul. And I tell you something else: There’s nothing worse for you to lose. It doesn’t matter whether it’s family or friends, people will always change and deteriorate after they’ve lost someone close. You helped me, to get rid of my phantom pain. I know this is a weird way of saying it, but, ‘thank you so much for that!’” Mark scratches his right temple and supposedly thinks about something. In the meantime, I shove the next forkful into my mouth. Mark goes on with it, “There’s nothing worse than losing someone, who was never actually there.”

Good grief, thanks for murdering my appetite. Chloe has contacted me again. I startle and look down to my… her phone. “Is that someone special?” Mark asks me. “Yeah, why?” I wonder. Meanwhile he softly touches my right cheek and removes a little tear. “Go to this person as long as he or she’s there,” Mark tells me. He grabs his refilled mug of coffee and drinks. “Please give me your number! I want to know someone who could be there for--” – “Here, take my card,” Mark wants to hand me his card. I refuse, “I’ll write it somewhere else, do you have a pen?” – “Yeah uhm… here you go!” Mark drags a green pen out of his pocket. I copy his phone number on my wrist. “I see, you want to keep track of things?” Mark asks me while contemplating me taking notes on my wrist. “Recently, yes… thanks,” I thank him and return his pen. “Now go to your friend! I have the sense that you are running out of time. I’ll catch you later!” Mark makes a rapid head movement to tell me, I should leave. I open the door and leave the diner. Meanwhile I check Chloe’s message on her phone. I turn around one more time to say, “I betcha!”

where the fku are you max . im waiting here forever

She has written like two minutes, ago. Time to get my ass moving. Damn, this conversation with Mark was a pain and a salvation. Though I really hope, both he and Kate prove right with their faith in love and humanity. Ouch, can’t run so quick. My stomach hurts instantly. Great, I should’ve drunken some water. Nothing in my bag, either. Nice, I’m well prepared to survive four hours at a time.

I reach the parking lot in front of the beach. Magnificent, no beached whales on the shore. Fuck my life, I totally missed the opportunity to ask Kate or Mark about the snowfall. Was there even a snowfall. If not, there should be no danger in 2013, at all. I’ve reached the swings. Chloe is smoking. After the chit-chat with Mark, I could leap for joy seeing her alive and kicking. Gotcha, Max, you really leaped for joy.

Chloe gets up from the rusty old swing and… oh shit she’s not in her brightest mood. Moreover, is she drunk? What’s wrong. I’m standing still instantly, her expression killed my attempt to crack a smile. What’s the matter? “You better… have… know a damn explanation for this bullshit or else… you saw me for the last time!” she threatens quite drunken. I can smell the scent of beer coming out of her throat. Her voice isn’t stable, I think she fights against her feelings. She whips an envelope out of her bag and nudges me aggressively. I lose my footing and plunk on the sandy ground. Ouch, shit. My right elbow has rammed onto a shell. Thanks for the blood. Chloe doesn’t apologize for hurting me. She comes up close to me. Her shadow engulfs me. She drops the envelope on my face while taking the next pull on her cigarette.

“Don’t you dare opening it! You fucking lied to me! You’d better have a good fucking reason!” this time her voice cracks all the time. Despite her being upset, I can clearly see her legs quivering. I try to get up, the shell still sticks in my skin. Small trails of blood dripple on the sand. I remove the shell shard, “Ouch, shit…” I curse. “Forget it, Max. Nothing matters here anymore. You are a fucking witch and nobody will care about your tainted blood on a hicktown beach. But stepfuck will care a lot,” Chloe reacts pissed off. I grab the envelope and try to open it.

“What the fuck do you think, are you doing?” Chloe retakes the letter. “What’s wrong Chloe. I… I don’t understand.” – “Are you really this dumb? You lied to me, yesterday! I trusted you… and you said that **you** are the author of all those letters…,” Chloe falls on her knees and cries. I crouch and try to comfort her but she denies and nudges me away with her right arm. “What are you, why are you here?” she whimpers. If I can’t touch her or do anything else, the only thing that comes into my mind is ‘our windmill’. “Tell me more about the windmill,” I try to revive this almost hopeless conversation. Chloe sniffles and answers me shortly, “Look at the giant house with the lights.” – “The lighthouse?” I turn around and look at the building far away from us. The heat and far distance tints its shape blue and some kind of vapor disguises the ground. What a great moment to take my next picture. I know my wall of photos contains almost dark themed imaged only. But this magnificent piece is a must. If my eye could scream, it… I… just take the damn picture. I grab my instant and focus. Damn, the blur is real. This takes forever to find the right focal distance. The camera clicks and damn. My finger hindered the flash. Ah, whatever. The swallowed-up flash won’t change anything. Nice print. Sigh, you can never escape the lighthouse.

“You really remember nothing from our childhood?” Chloe discerns disappointed. I twist my right arm to look after my injury again. Chloe approaches me, her shadow drops on my arm and masks all visibility I had about the cut. She grabs my wrist and reads the notes. The joints in my wrist crack. Ouch, gee thanks Chloe! “red miracle,” she whispers aloud and startles. So, what next? Will she break my bones? “Let’s blow. I’ll show you our windmill. You will remember once we’re there. But it’ll be rusted and the stairs will squeak,” she determines and heads towards the entrance of the muddy pathway. Why this sudden change? Why did this note on my wrist change her mind? And while we’re at it, why does everything save my ass I had no control of. Neither was “The red miracle” consciously written by me nor was the abduction something I had determined by my own free will. God forbid!

The wound doesn’t look too shabby. Should be fixed by my body if there were any reserves left. Good thing I’ve just eaten. Not much, but better than nothing. Chloe has made a fair way off. Before getting back to her, I should definitely listen to some music. I’d die without my mp3-player. I just want to hit play, but I’m curious what song might be on the list, this time. “65daysofstatic with When we were younger & better”, yet another great post rock song. Besides, the song’s name tells everything. And I forgot to mention, that I haven’t looked after all the changed albums on my bookshelves. All I can tell is that this one is a great piece, too. In the far distance, Chloe waves at me. The heat has increased to the max. Chloe looks like a flame because the heat distorts everything beyond a hundred yards. Doesn’t change the fact that she’s as thin as a rake with red hot hair on her head. Better get going before she evaporates or worse. I’m really curious about it… our windmill.

“C’mon slowpoke!” she screams via the muddy pathway. I remember her tensed and stressed tone. I hid inside the wardrobe and David slapped her face. Good job, Max. I’m also a bit curious about _how_ I managed to write all the letters. I mean, _how_ did I write an entire story? Apparently, Chloe has received yet another letter which has rendered her distraught. Yeah, I lied to her. I confirmed something I had no idea of. Basically, there’s no potential writer except me. But this coincidence – that she received yet the next letter - turned my initial statement into a downright lie. Mind you, Chloe’s partial meltdown has almost resembled her breakdown where she and I snooped around in Frank’s RV. When she found out about Rachel’s romance with Frank. Luckily, she has caught the note inside my palm and calmed instantly. “Stop daydreamin’ slow--” – “Yeah, I’m coming.” Funny that I know the rhythm of Chloe’s way of speaking. Concurrently I lower the volume on my player.

We’ve reached the lighthouse. Damn what a long walk. Felt like three miles. Chloe looks kind of nervous. “You ready?” she asks. I nod. With her right hand, she draws attention to the card on the tablet. We both go there. Strange, the pirate fortress isn’t marked on the map. What happened. “What about our pirate fort?” – “You mean the junk yard? Later…” Chloe can quickly answer my question. What a relief. At least, there are still some adventures kept alive from our childhood. “Don’t you see our windmill?” Chloe asks me fairly bummed. “No, I don’t get it,” I’m honest with her. With her pointer, she draws from the shore up to the lighthouse, leaves the tablet and shows up to the lighthouse as she turns around.

“Ta-da! …why won’t you remember?” she wonders and heads to the lighthouse. Isn’t the door locked? Ah, never mind then. Don’t rely on anything here. You are wrong Max. I should go back to the current reality’s name. To Shit-Array. Chloe tosses her cigarette away. What the hell? She drugged herself with grass? Smoking pot plus alcohol? Nice combo… forget it. “Will you scientifically investigate dump or will you climb up on our old rusty windmill?” she asks. I follow her to the rusty door of the lighthou-- excuse me, I mean _windmill_. Wherefore did we call this old gizmo ‘windmill’? The spiral staircase up really shows its age. A seedy lighthouse that we used as a secret lair in our childhood. Apparently, our pirateship had been keeled over or sunken, long time ago.

A few more steps and we’ve reached the highest point of Arcadia Bay. Whoa, getting seasick up here. Chloe chuckles. So easy, to leverage her mood back to normal? Whom would you trust, if we said, we would be normal, if anything? The door wiggles and bends with the wild wind. An annoying squeak through the cylindrical structure. I should increase the volume on my mp3-player, but I’d rather put it back into my bag. Urgh, the door hasn’t been used in ages. Chloe has somehow squeezed herself through the narrow gap, or… maybe I should attend a gym and train my bones, because my muscles are totally gone after this painful workout. Ouch, my wound has scratched along the metal doorframe. Shit, I need to get this wound fixed.

I lean against the rusty banister and enjoy the strong wind which makes my hair flutter in all directions. Chloe holds an old cassette-player in her hand. The cassette inside plays back, although she’s not wearing any headphones. The player has stopped. She turns her - literally mesmerized - gaze to me. She smirks and I’ll try my best to return this adorable smile. “Watch out Max!” Chloe pulls on my arm. The railing, I’ve just leant against breaks apart with a loud zing and smashes down into the sturdy rocks. Wow, I’ve just realized how strong her hand grabbed after mine. I’ve got enough phantom pains around my body, now she’s made the next imprint.

“Huh, a déjà-vu,” Chloe thinks aloud. The wind bellows around us. Why did she drag me up here? “Déjà-vu? Sounds like you’ve had the choice to let me fall instead. Thanks, my red-haired angel!” I thank and embrace her. Finally, she doesn’t refuse closeness. “Do you remember, now?” Chloe talks to me while I don’t let go off her. “Hmm, not really. You should start explaining it all over again,” I kindly ask her. “First, let us go away from that broken railing-part. This old lady’s parts are coming undone.” – “Sure, so what’s up with this _windmill_?” I want to know first. We walk clockwise and instead of the sea we now watch the old hicktown Arcadia Hell.

“When we were younger, we’ve been listening to the Gorillaz all day long, remember? Uhm… anyways... One day in 2005 or four, maybe, they made this new very popular song ‘Feel Good’, remember that one? Maybe?” Chloe tells the story. I nod and keep listening, “Anyhow, this lighthouse was our hiding spot throughout our childhood. But it was too tall and huge for a pirate ship. And lighthouse sounded lame. Then, a few days later, you showed me the official music video. And there, you could see the windmill… floating in mid-air, in the clouds, so lonely, so forgotten… we used the term ‘windmill’ to give our hiding place a new name. A cool name. Ah, by the way, can you give me back my cellphone?” Chloe unfortunately interrupted her great story. But sure, she can have it. We are swapping our phones.

“Anything else happened?” she’s curious. But I decide to shake my head. I can’t tell her, right now, that I read the threat. She should confide in me or… keep up the distrust. I’m afraid that this day’s letter had messed her up a lot. I will understand. Her phone vibrates. It seems like the next message has arrived. I check my messages, in the meantime she checks hers,

Honey we tried to reach you don’t be afraid we will be there for you. dad and I, us reached a phone call this morning. Please stay in the hospital we will take care of everything. No time to write I’ll help your dad stowing our clothes in the car. Xxoo mommy

This message arrived at 8am. The next one blows my mind. Near me, I get the feeling that Chloe begins to cry, but I need to read,

Hye honey we’ve been driving for an hour and we’ve been contacted by some mister prescott. He offered us to stay at the prescott estates for as long as we want to because he heard what had happened to you. please call us back we know almost nothing. I’m worrying sick. mommy

Holy moly! I watch to my right since I’ve really gained the feeling that something is utterly wrong. Chloe is crying louder. Good call, Max. She stuffs her phone back into her pocket. What’s the matter my friend? I walk towards her and want to console her. She immediately turns away and runs down the stairs. I follow her. “Chloe, wait! What happened?” I call her but she doesn’t react. Her cry echoes through the cylindrically shaped lighthouse. Our windmill with--…ouch! Shit! One stair couldn’t hold my weight and broke apart. My entire leg slices along a metal piece inside the wall. This thing is decaying. We should never get up there again. Isn’t this supposed to be under some sort of maintenance? Who is in charge of checking this thing’s current condition? Ouch, I scratched my leg. Abrasion with some blood. Shit, hopefully no metal slivers. I pull my leg out of the painful gap. Some light would be a relief in this staircase of darkness.

Normally, I’d just rewind and heal myself by the time-powers, but I never tried to self-heal any injury. Chloe stands all alone at the bench. Holding her cassette player again. I can see how distressed she is by just looking at her veiny hand. I walk towards her but she warns me, “Leave me alone,” without her sounding like she’s crying any longer. “Chloe, I--” – “Can it!” Chloe interrupts me. I look after the tree stump. No dagger, thank God. But on the other hand, I see letters carved into the wood. It reads “If trees could speak” yeah, they’d really tell us mean things, wouldn’t they? I sit down leaning with my back to the stump and search for “Feeling Good from the Gorillaz”. Then, I’ll look up to the old and destroyed lighthouse and imagine it had propellers or wings and what not. A mild gust of wind blows fresh sea air into my nose. Whew! What a day… again and it’s still early in the morning.

Chloe turns her head and frowns a little. Oh man, all this is just wrong. “The red miracle” … stop it, Max. Don’t search for any answers, search for a way to get Chloe happy and some flesh to your loose bones. Now, my parents are on their way to Arcadia Hell, too. Great, I’ll ask them to leave together with Chloe. What’s the reason for her being so upset. Chloe heads to me, during I’ve finally found the right song on the playlist and hit play. “Rachel wrote me. Frank has some kind of relapse and she wants to come home…,” with a vacant stare somewhere between the tree stump and me. “That’s great we can see her again!” I say delighted.

“You don’t know jack!” she says totally disconcerted. I think it’s better to leave this place. “Chloe, I’ve got so many questions, but I know you don’t trust me, right now. After all, I need your help, if you want me to get out of my future misery. We should go to the junk yard. I’m curious about what I’ve changed,” finally, I can speak properly. Chloe thinks about my words. Then she asks again, “Why did you lie to me? There was all the time in the world and you used it to lie.” She’s utterly right. I’m an asshole. And I can’t change this. It was my decision and my curiosity. Given the fact that the letter was **absolutely** written by me and even addressed to me. The philosophical question: What allows me to be _in the right_? How do I prove _right_ although I was just guessing? “I think you don’t know what to answer, right?” Chloe digs it.

“Look at me!” Chloe screams. My ears even hurt with music on them. I feel one tear leaving my left eye. “Why did you **LIE**!” Chloe shakes on my shoulders. Somehow, this doesn’t shock me. I’m used to this crap. I’m sure that the letters, she has been reading up to this point, meant a lot to her. I sense that they might’ve replaced the love that her father had been giving to her, back when he was alive. Chloe’s strength abated abruptly. Her arms lose a lot of strength but her hands don’t leave my shoulders. She cries and digs her fingertips into my scapulae. Her legs anguish. She lays her head on my chest and tries to relax while tears are leaving her eyes. Gosh, her breath smells of alcohol… “Feeling Good” has just finished. Well, this tune ensures the maximum relaxation. Chloe has her next meltdown. She shivers everywhere. Even the grass beneath her body quivers with her. “You know what’s the worst of it?” she asks me after a long time of keeping up silence. I mutter something akin to a simple ‘no’. With my right hand, I massage her head a little. My small fingers unfortunately can’t reach the entire skull. After a while Chloe confides to me, “I still love her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decisions made by Max (their importance/weight is kept secret):
> 
> -She didn’t answer the wicked policeman, at all  
> -Max avoided Kate’s question, when she was asked whether she had eavesdropped Kate’s and the German’s conversation  
> -She said, that she wanted to share something with Kate in private  
> -She confided in Kate and voiced misgivings about the student from abroad  
> -She suggested to Kate to look after Dana  
> -She decided to head to the beach on foot  
> -She agreed and ate together with Mark in the Diner instead of heading to the beach  
> -She added Mark’s number on her wrist  
> -She lied to Chloe about the messages on Chloe’s phone  
> -She chose to not use her time-altering powers to heal her wounds
> 
>    
> “Memorize Max” (Events or occurrences everybody took note of, including Max):
> 
> -Max recognized the bloody footprints in the boys’ dormitories  
> -The mean unknown police officer will remember Max’s face  
> -Max found out about the student’s background story  
> -The German admits that he wrote on Max’s slate  
> -Kate seems to distrust the German and is a little disappointed about Max  
> -Max will remember Mark’s phantom pain  
> -Max parents wrote that they were on their way to Arcadia Bay  
> -Chloe cried because Max didn’t answer her at their windmill  
> -Chloe admitted that she was still in deep love with Rachel


	11. Stage dive to heaven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max is about to find out everything she needs to know. But will she understand? What happened to William, Rachel? Why is she suffering from so many painful visions? Slowly but surely, Max gets the hang of it. She gets the point that she is not in the right place to stay. But now, her fight begins!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Original date of release - September 11th 2017 -
> 
> (September 2017) Most recent updates:  
> -the dialogue's climax (climax of this chapter) has been enhanced and reworked significantly and the outcome/result isn't that implausible. This is the only major correction I made, since it was so stupid. I'm sorry to everyone who read another version thus far! My bad! Thanks to my friend's help. Without Chris, it would still be the same.

**Chapter 11 – Stage dive to heaven**  
**Theme Song: Makrados –[Junkyard Angel (Max Caulfield Edition)](https://youtu.be/YLduAsDdrcI)**

My leg hurts. My butt, too. For how long have we been here? We should get going. Oh, so cute, Chloe fell asleep on my lap. Her tears feel so cold, my t-shirt has turned into a heavy tissue. Every time she breathes, I can hear her nose sniveling. Can’t get my thoughts around Mark’s story, though. I mean, he told some intense shit but there was something fairly incongruous about his heartbreaking story. I believe the fact, that he lost his daughter and I can imagine the phantom pain of both his wife and him. I can’t tell, what I distrust because I don’t know, yet. Yeah, I know jack. I know nothing about the German student, I know nothing about Rachel and I know nothing about how Chloe avoided Blackwell along with Rachel and I know nothing about the Prescott family and why their son pushed a piece of cold iron in his spoiled brain. It seems so wrong being up here and call the pirate fortress a damn windmill. It appears to me that something’s pretty wrong. Why is a crucial thing such as the lighthouse decaying? Where’s the maintenance? Stop asking yourself, Max, your brain starts twisting.

Chloe snivels and whimpers. She tries to get up and supports herself on my right leg. “Argh, **CHLOE**!” I scream at her in deep pain. Unbearable, holy fuck, she put all her weight onto my wound. Christ, I feel the contour of her hand pounding around my abrasion. I regard it. “Didn’t shoot you in my car, either?” she tries to turns this into a joke. “A--… are you losing your fricking mind?” I yell at her, “Oh man, it damn hurts. I should definitely see a doctor…” Chloe doesn’t look concerned at all. “What? Do something!” I beg her. “And do what, Doctor Max?” she retorts. Yeah, she’s really turning my situation into a lame joke. “You knew, I needed your help and you kept me waiting. You lied to me… Why should I even bother?” – “Chloe, you can’t be serious! I’m severely injured…” I try to get a closer look at the wound. It looks infected. Haven’t seen a mark or an injury on my body in years. Huh, if _year_ means anything. Chloe brushes off the dust from her belly and jeans. Yeah, good for you to not be wounded. But who am I to judge? I don’t know what to say. She uses my pain to continue her guilt-trip bullshit.

“Okay, if you don’t want to help… please, tell me what has happened yesterday, after I wanted to ask Joyce the ‘painful question’. It’s Tuesday already - and I’m feeling like I’m running out of days.” I try to oblige her and get me some answers while being in pain. Damn, the wound pounds and every time I feel the blood reaching it, the entire area burns and twinges. Chloe gets up and walks to the bench. I also try to get on my feet. Oh man, if she continuous this hesitation, I’ll lose my leg faster than I can say ‘windmill’. Still can walk. What a relief. Guess, I can handle the pain a bit longer. I join Chloe. “And what’s up with this cassette player?” I add my next question and point at the vintage player in her pocket. Damn, this thing sure is older than she. Chloe talks facing the sea, “Wanna leave the windmill?” – “Anywhere, if I can fix my wound there, sure.”

“We’ll go to the junkyard. I say goodbye to Rachel there,” Chloe says frowning at the sea and bites on her lower lip. Tears flow down around her nose and reach her chin. “She’d better be fucking dead, before she ever wants to see my face again!” with a very caustic tone and then she leaves the bench. She’s not saying anything else. She expects me to follow, I reckon. Damn, she’s fast. I must run my way to her to keep up… argh! Fuck, my leg! I almost fall, squat on the muddy ground and embrace my leg with my teeth gritting. Screaming out very deafeningly loud, I can see birds leaving their trees. Wonderful, it’s great to leave whenever something unbearable occurs, right? Chloe keeps walking away. I touch my wound. An abrasion drawn along my thin skin. It’s getting green, a metallic sliver sticks into my flesh. And I thought, I was skin and bones, only. With my fingernails, I try to remove it. Got you, little bast--… Ourgh! “GRAAH…” I scream until my vocal cords smart. My eyesight smears and turns into a blur. I must get this wound treated. I feel somebody touching my shoulder with the hand. Please get me out of here!

“Try to rewind time Max, have the courage to do it again,” her voice sounds different when I’m in deep agony, almost akin to her last word, when I used the butterfly photo to repair the timeline. “I… I…,” my voice hurts instantly, but I try again, “I’ll move _us_ back to the windmill and back in time.” I let her know. “No, you must go alone.” Chloe denies.

I grab her wrist with my right hand and clench the other to pulse us. I want to go backwards. I hear the humming again, terrifying. The chocking on my throat feels strong. It hurts. I hear Chloe’s scream through the pulse-time-travel. A very loud “Please!” and that’s all she can scream.

We are back at the top of the lighthouse. Chloe behind me. She falls to the ground and runs away coughing in pain. “Fuck you, Max! FUCK YOU!” and she runs down the stairs. I hear the thumping on the metal stairs. Shit, no! I’ve reset the broken step and she’ll run over it with much more heft. I try to get up. I’ve also realized, that my wound hasn’t changed. Weird, Chloe’s shot against my arm is reversible, however a self-inflicted wound can’t be undone? I can’t heal myself with pulsing, period. The bar of the railing breaks apart. A clear indication that I evidently _rewound_ instead of… go forwards in time. This pulsing-technique is beyond my understanding. I can’t tell where I’m going. Luckily the repeating events around me will tell whether I move for- or backwards.

“AAH, Max I’m… I’m stuck!” the step has been dismantled. And she’s yet again stuck. Instead of train rails, it’s inside the windmill. Who’d have thought, that I actually turned the tables that much? Mind you, there’s no train to come… fair enough. Ouch, my leg hurts even more when there’s still the feeling of being strangled. I carefully hobble downstairs and try to help Chloe. “Are you hurt, Chloe?” I talk to her through the pitched black interior construction of the lighthouse. No answer, but then I hit someone’s back with my left knee. Chloe groans. With my left hand, I hang on to the rusty banister and with my right I try to pry Chloe out of the gap. And don’t ask me, how we managed, but somehow, we came out both out of the lighthouse with no extra injuries. Chloe turns sour, “Don’t you ever use your powers against **my** will!” she threatens me. Ah, I see. Her red mark around her neck is more visible and redder. Gee, I… didn’t only move us both, I also hurt her because…

“Are you hurt… I-- I… didn’t mean to--” - “Yeah, you’ve hurt and pained me. ‘Nuff said, I’ll drive you to the hospital.” Chloe gives up and helps me. Thanks, my angel. I’d better shut up, from now on. I’m allowed to use her as a crutch… which means, she’s not walking alone again. I scream after my very first step. Can feel my heartbeat within the wound. It tingles around my wound. My brain feels like it’s… it’s fried. Not this again… I lose consciousness. My leg stops aching. My head… and there she plummeted and lost control of her body.

\--------  
A chime rings in my head. I sense a sting in my neck. Poison floods my veins.  
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First the dark room. And now what? The dirt beneath my face smells of metal and synthetics. Nathan, you piece of shit! Eating tons of drugs like a pig. As if every day wasn’t good enough, right? There it goes. My talent, my gift, my faith, my world. It all fades away just for a few hot pics. You could’ve asked me, you fucking rat! Gutless filth. Oh yes, I mean you, assface! Disgusting Prescott boy. I hope you enjoy the pictures of my lost innocence, oh man.

He totters around and digs a hole with a shovel. C’mon, get up and run away he’s too stoned to realize any sudden move. My arms tingle… my legs, too. Oh, no. No, no! I’m… am I gonna be buried alive? Try to say something, smartass, “…urgh…” Nathan startles as he hears my moan. Yeah, please… I swear I will tell nobody. I just want to go back to Chloe, to my family, anywhere but not here. The hell you’ve put me through is nothing compared to what Chloe or my parents had put me through. What are you doing Nath? Who are you looking at?

He walks a few steps away from me and talks to someone. I try to budge, but it feels like the only thing being able to move, right now, are my thoughts. I can still see everything clearly, maybe a bit desaturated, but clear enough. Nathan talks to Mister Jefferson. Urgh, you skeevy pieces of shit. I actually don’t care about my fate here, on the junkyard. I can’t fight fate. I think my body has lost this struggle and all what remains is my capability to think. Jefferson walks to me. What’s going on? This piece of shit looks straight in my eyes. You’d better be proud, asshole, because it’s the last time you’ve seen my frightened eyes.

Jefferson looks behind. I try to talk to him, “…ow… _groan_ … don’t… no…” What the, I think I’ve beaten the sedative. The anesthetization abates. I can hear myself breathing again. I’m gaining more strength. Try to move your left hand, Rache. It prickles, but I made it. My hand pushes over the dirty soil and hits Jefferson’s knee. Coldness. I sense temperature. Gosh, it makes me so happy to survive. Hey, what… what are you doing there? He grabs my throat, turns my head with his filthy claws. Mud, I feel it sticking on my right cheek. It’s cold, and yet undefiled compared to Jefferson’s dirty blood-sodden hands. He fetches a syringe. What? Why? Why do you load the next dose into my veins? Leave me be. The next sting in my neck burns. **Shit** , no! Like little bugs, the subsequent poison crawls under my skin. I won’t survive this. Fast Rachel, think about somebody you want to warn or you love… Shit there is not much time. Chloe… eh, Frank… Dad? Shit, please… whom to talk to, first?

Nathan returns while Jefferson leaves me. Everything becomes a mild blur. Thanks, I was getting so sick of the mere sight of both of you. I mean, I feel sorry Nathan, at least. Somehow it must suck to be you, a Prescott member. Fathered by a tainted dick. Born and raised with hatred and distress. Is this supposed to be the Stockholm-Syndrome? Sympathizing with your abductor and also murderer? I wish, Chloe was here to whup your fucking ass. Everything else becomes blurry. My breath dies. The engine of Jefferson’s snobbish car growls. He leaves the junkyard. Oh man, I just want Jefferson to crash into the next tree on the road and burn to death. Captured in his agony. And if he’s not dying today, nature should take care of it somehow, somewhere, somewhen else. I can’t hear. Nicely done. You could’ve saved me, literally. I’m getting tired…

Wow… what’s that over there? A doe? Move! Go away! Shush! Run away from here. Don’t stay here. Nathan has also spotted the deer. He walks out of my sight. I hope, it runs away. Please don’t shoot her. Flee little doe. Whoa man, I’m not feeling good. Stay awake Rachel… you can…

… wish, I could cough. It’s dark. Something drops on my face. It’s cold, crumbly and muddy. My eyes can’t open wide enough to see, what’s going on. The walls are closing in. I’m surrounded by death down here. I assume that Nathan has dug out a hole for me to rot in. Jefferson ordered him to do it. Yeah right, the dirty work is nothing for this piece of shit. The lecturer, Jefferson with his spotless record at Blackhell. And now Nathan fills my dug-out hole with dirt. So much dirt on my body. So much grief in my life. I had the option to leave Arcadia Bay for the better. Or how would Chloe say, “Arcadia Hell”. Jesus, I can’t scream, I can’t see, I’m just there. Why can’t I leave? That’s the last thing I wanna do. Leave. Flee. More dirt rains down onto me.

A beautiful melody. It’s the only clean thing in my mind. What is it? An acoustic guitar? Strings are certainly not made out of metal. Is this Nathan playing a song on his phone? Is he paying my respects while filling up the hole I’m buried under? I’m sure I hear this melody inside of my head. But I’ve never listened to it before. Who’s playing the guitar? Where did I hear this? An audible hallucination, I guess. But it’s beautiful. Please never end. Don’t pause.

To Chloe’s friend who abandoned her. Max, was it? If you ever come back into Chloe’s life, run away with her. Leave Arcadia Bay and never come back. If you make Chloe suffer, you will suffer worse. I’ve heard stories about you, which have made me appalled and disappointed. You will never find out anything about me. Chloe, I will tell William, how much you love and miss him. He will be proud of you. Also, William would be glad to see me, although we never met before. He certainly is grateful to be in your heart, but make some room for new people, since I won’t be there any longer.

And Chloe, do me a solid and never tell Max any stories about me, do you hear me? Lie, if necessary. I’m a mystery to everyone. My parents, the students and even you. I shall sustain my secrets. I don’t have any choice. I’m being buried alive, that’s my fate I can’t fight. I’m not even tired from the tranquilizer. It decelerates my thinking, my heart and every other part of my body. It makes my body feel like a hot shell, I can’t escape. Every intent to move increases the heat inside this hull. The dose was too high and eventually everything will collapse. My soul remains. I’ll guide you as a raven. It’s not to be trusted, it will fly above all of you and crow. Warn you and bring up some hope. That’s my last wish when I’m gone. And please let everything burn in Arcadia Bay. Literally everything! I will watch it burn. The guitar has stopped playing. I’m alone. Something sucks on me - my soul leaves me. Farewell fight is over…

“Graaah, CHLOE!” I scream awakening. What was that? It can’t be. I can’t pass out anymore. This is getting to far. Where am I. My leg has been patched up. I’m in my underwear only. This is the brick wall house among the junkyard, where Chloe and Rachel hung out. It still looks the same. It strikes me that their relationship elapsed as expected. They were friends, they had ups and downs. Even the make-up on the table is yet the same. The giant carpet at the wall with the elephant. Rachel was here. Chloe was here. Who took care of my wound? I feel the burn of the sticky ointment within the bandage. Chloe sits on the other side. The opposite side of the den, so to speak. How did she get the couch in here? I’m not kidding. It’s the couch that was missing in the Prices’ house. And I had thought, David took care of it and dumped it. “Good afternoon, Max. You conked out and fell on your wound. I carried you to my truck. I don’t understand how you’ve lost so much weight within a day. Considering, that I already carried you upstairs into my room without making an effort, yesterday... you’ve gotta eat,” she says hello. But no smile on her face.

“Who took care of my leg?” I wonder and examine the dressing wrapped around my thin leg. Hell, this doesn’t look good. How much do I weight? Less than 90 lbs. that’s for sure. Chloe smokes pot again. She takes a deep pull and after exhaling she talks to me, “Since you were zonked out, I used the time to search the pistol inside the dunes. Suddenly I felt something cold and heavy poking my back. The gun was inside of my bag. Then I realized, that you must’ve fucked with time just again. Great job, Max.” she coughs and shows at the gun lying on the table. Next to her is a dusty box filled with what I think are letters. “You want answers, I can give you answers. Quid pro quo?” Chloe invites me. I’m under a brown warm blanket. Cozy, the winds outside are damn cold. Glad to feel the sun burning on my neck. Okay, before I ask her anything about Rachel, William or her feelings, I’ll ask basic plain questions first. I mean, how uncomfortable could she ask questions? “Okay, can I start with my first question?” Chloe nods and takes just another pull on her grass. But, what is she doing there? Holding a grudge? She’s up to no good. I can read her face.

“Who fixed my leg and how did we get…?” – “ **Hey** , I said quid pro quo. One question, one answer and the other way. Choose your questions carefully thought out, because I know mine!” Chloe interrupts me harshly and smashes her fist on the table – the flipped cable wheel, repurposed to a table. Two bottles of beer are shaking, the gun on the table rotates and points to my direction. I start again, “Who took care of my leg?” – “I drove us to a hospital after I found the gun,” Chloe’s answer. I instantly want to add the next question, “But how did we…” – “Are you **fucking deaf**? One question answered - now my turn. _I’m_ asking. What powers are you using?” She facepalms and digs her nails inside her forehead. Her question isn’t that hard to answer though, “I’m turning time forwards and backwards and can change position, at will. But it hurts when I’m not focusing and concentrating. I haven’t mastered those powers, yet.” She appreciates my answer. But she’s still up onto something.

“My turn. How did you get Rachel out of Blackwell?” I know that she has partly answered that questions, already. But I need way more specifics. “You wrote billions of letters to me, remember? I warned Rachel, not to visit the academy. Her father was fairly interested in my opinion about Blackwell, because I’ve also attended that academy for quite some time. I tried to break into the principal’s office and fake Rachel’s file and placed it as ‘urgent” on his desk. Unfortunately, it wasn’t she who got expelled after that. Her record was copied and backed-up because her father insisted. He smelled a rat and I got busted. That rat was actually you and not I, but how do you want to explain this to an DA? Rachel’s parents finally took her out of Blackwell after some threatening messages had reached the Ambers’ mailbox. And the file-faking story was my drop off reason of course. Fine… my turn!” she says and rubs her hands eagerly. No matter how weird her next question might be, those few answers were a serious delight.

“What’s the ‘burning horizon’?” a short question. I can’t tell. If I really want to answer that question… Should I? Maybe it’s better to say, it’s not worth racking one’s brain for. “Nothing… it’s rather unimportant,” I answer… oh, she doesn’t like it. “Why did you flake out on me? You knew, I needed somebody to talk to!” Chloe goes on with questions but I won’t answer those, “I found that, your question was answered and it’s my turn,” I persist. “You lied to me again, Max. ‘Burning horizon’ is written on your skin. You know the movie Memento? So, it’s important. Besides, I know your face when you are lying. I’ve learned a lot from Rachel.” I raise my arm and contemplate the note. “What do you want to know about it? Besides, you also read ‘Red miracle’ on my wrist and you said nothing about it,” I mention something else, that had changed her mind on shore. It’s astounding how rapid her temper switches from calm to despair and aggression. “I want to know everything about ‘burning horizon’ and about why you fucking lied to me about it. Then, I want to know, why you flaked out on me.” – “Those are three questions… you’re changing the game’s rules,” I try to put the stops on her. She takes another pull and whistles a painfully high note into my direction. I cough, damn that stuff stinks.

“Sure, I’m changing _rules_. What about _you_ , moron? Don’t you _rule_ time? **Fuck** , David slapped my face after he saw all your blood on the ground, interrogated me, harassed me, and today, both the blood plus my bruise on my nose have vanished. Now, give me one hell of a reason to leave me – a ‘ _friend’_ – waiting at the beach, then lie to me about an important note on your body AND, bitch at me because I change the rules because you think I’m that stupid!” she scowls at me and takes her next pull from her grass. She coughs even harder. Okay, Max, answer her without ruining the game. Don’t make her livid, again.

“You know what? I’ll change the rules one last time. In favor of you,” Chloe rethinks her strategy. The train behind us drives across. The old rails squeak and grind as the train passes. Chloe covers her ears. Strange, I’ve never seen her doing this before. The train has left. A raven crows. Chloe gazes up to me and takes the next pull on her holy instrument of medication. Smoking pot seems to have no relaxing effect on her as long as I’m around. “Now, how ‘bout this? You answer my three questions at once and then we’ll change one crucial rule. You like lying, right? Okay then! After this you can ask me whatever you want to know and I will give you an answer. After that, I will assert two things and you have to guess what’s right or wrong. If you are correct, you can ask your next question. You understand?”

Oh my. This will get increasingly complex. Just answer her, Max, “First question, ‘burning horizon’. It’s a polaroid image that I have dragged out of a time fragment. You are interconnected with the time fragment. And your character equals the Chloe out of the story from my… from _the_ letters. You took the photo of the ‘burning horizon’. You are the photographer, it’s a masterpiece. And I stole it… I swear to God, I don’t know more about the ‘burning horizon’ except for this photo,” I need a break after this answer. Still lying on the side, I grab the photo out of my bag. It still flickers and gives me an instant headache. Chloe doesn’t seem to be interested as much.

She stubs out her grass into her Oregon-Ashtray. She nods and clears her throat, “I believe you,” she approves. She blinks twice to tell me, I should go on. I get up and try to walk to her. My leg hurts the same as before. I can’t put the little weight of my body on that thigh. So, I determine to sit down, instead. Urgh, bloodstream can’t keep up, I need to wait a second until my head feels all right, “Question two. I was abducted, yesterday. I bumped into the officer who rescued me and took care of me. I don’t know why I’m not into a hospital, anymore and I don’t know what the locals are saying or your stepdad about what happened. I wasn’t hallucinating, it really happened. My rescuer’s name is Mark. A namesake not to be mistaken with my photography teacher Mark Jefferson - the abductor. Where was I? Anyway, I met Mark at the gas station near the diner and I wanted to shoot the breeze, before he leaves Arcadia Bay for Portland.”

Chloe stares sadly to the ground, swallows hard and begins her next sentence with her voice cracking, “So, he was more important than I? Shoot the breeze with the savior. Okay, I believe you. Last question?” She almost cried at the end. “I lied to you about what? The photo or about the letter?” I want to make sure that I answer her the right way. “If it’s not too much of an effort... both,” her voice becomes really hoarse. “I lied to you about the picture, because I know no truth, yet. I don’t understand what it means. And if you’ve studied the entire novel, I’ve sent to you, you know that I was able to time travel via polaroid images on which I had to be inside the reflection or even on the photo itself,” I need some water after this ridiculous game.

Chloe slowly nods. I answer the last questions, “And I lied about the letters – that I am the composer of them, because I evidently wrote them. But I can’t remember having them written. Ever. It’s my penmanship, it’s my way of speaking and even the letter addressed to me, was written by – guess who – me. I didn’t lie to you… I…” – “Oh you just did again. If you can’t remember writing more than hundreds of them, you are hella lying when I ask you whether you are the author. You broke my trust and _I_ won’t confide in you again,” Chloe determines. “Chloe, why…” – “Okay, let’s go. One lie and one truth,” she breaks her rules again, “Chloe, you’re breaking the rules a--” – “You lie to me, I change the fucking rules as I please! One lie, one truth. First, ‘You are the alleged composer of all those letters’. Second, ‘Rachel fucks Frank in his RV and vice versa’. What’s right and what’s wrong?”

This can’t be. She wants to win this game. I can’t believe how much I’ve changed her in the past few events. It’s not much and I’m messing everything up already. Worst of all, I’m in an even worse mental condition and she doesn’t give a shit. There must be a reason. “Answer, Max!” she tells me. Good, “First is… not true, second one is true.” – “Fine, you are not too bad at this. How about we combine this with Russian roulette? Uhm, maybe later,” Chloe answers cynically. “Are you serious?” She has bats in her belfry! “Yeah _I’m_ serious. _I_ hauled your ass yet another time around in Arcadia Hell because you obviously can’t stand this place. ‘Are you serious?’ oh boo-hoo SHUT UP!” she clenches her fist. She takes an empty bottle and throws it in my direction. I dodge it. The bottle breaks and little shards of glass drop onto my back. Chloe snivels. She receives another call. She grabs the phone really fast, almost desperately. As if she was waiting for it.

“Rache… God, I don’t know what to say,” now her eyes turn red. She shakes with every part of her body. She swallows hard multiple times. Just when I thought, she hated Rachel to death, she would take her back in a heartbeat. I remember her disappearing, because she had met someone special. I assumed it was Nathan but I’ll never know. I’m somewhere else and will never know the right things about the timeline that I remember. I miss the blue-haired Chloe sometimes. Her lips imbued in her tears, quivering back and forth. I stand up and slowly walk towards her. When I think about the last times she was sad, she was really grateful for getting solace. Chloe hangs up without a goodbye without a word. I take my next step towards her.

“GET AWAY FROM ME!” she yells and grabs the gun. Gosh, what’s going on? She has totally lost her mind. I’m at gunpoint once again. I raise my hands. This time, her shaky hands make the gun sway even more. She’d miss every bullet. “SIT DOWN!” she yells at me. Whoa, I can feel her anger. “Chloe, I just want to help,” I try to apologize. “No fucks given. The shooting range is prepped, you tell me, where to hit you, right?” I ignore her ridiculous idea and try to speak with her, “Who’s called you...--” Chloe shoots and hits the brick wall on my right side. Some debris charges into my face and draws small cuts into my face. The bullet was on head level. I can’t believe it! She totally lost it, “Rewind and tell me where to aim!” Chloe shouts out loud and her arms shake even more, she can barely sit straight. This can’t be true. She didn’t haul my ass up here to shoot the clip empty. Okay, time to use my powers.

I clench my first and try to move backwards while holding my position. Fuck, the whales. What’s their purpose? I’m strangled and I hear Mister Jefferson yell something at me. What the fuck is this time travel bullshit?

I’m back. I can’t feel the cuts on my face, yet. “No fuck given. The shooting range is… is, you… tell me, where… you, right?” Chloe repeats, she seems… to feel the twisted time around her already. I don’t get it. She had remembered the shot against my arm and Nathan’s suicide and any other pulse, I’ve traveled with her. And now she’s just confused? What the hell is this place turning into? “Aim a bit to the right and **down** , if you don’t want to impale my cranium,” Chloe really corrects her aim. Both my eyes shed some tears of fear so do hers, “Do me one last favor before you shoot. Bear in mind that I went through more trouble than you can ever imagine. If ‘you shooting me’ is supposed to be my last memory, please don’t feel hate when you pull the trigger. Think about anyone you love,” I finish my sentence and squint.

The more I wait for the shot, the more painful the waiting itself. I wish, I had the courage to open my eyes and watch. But, it’s Chloe’s decision. I expect anything from her, but not shooting me again. She learnt her lesson. She almost killed me in the truck… for reasons. Me, posing a threat to her. Huh, the Real-Max sure wants me dead. All sounds around me become clearer and louder. I hear Chloe’s cloth moving as she sways and waves about with the gun. I certainly can tell, that she’s still holding that cold rod in her hands. She pulls the trigger and fires. She hits the brick wall next to me. Little slivers cut small wounds into my left cheek. I think, I should raise my head and look, what she’s doing. I open my eyes and realize, that I’m still at her gunpoint. Chloe shoots again, an audible whimper follows. I cover myself with my arms and hide my face. She has hit the wall above me. Dust and crumbly clay falls on my neck and slips under my t-shirt, down my back. It itches but I keep holding my arms in front of my head to cover me.

I unhide from my cover to watch Chloe’s eyes brimming with tears. What is she up to? Chloe suddenly screams and shoots at my right side and the wall catapults debris and dust in my direction, which makes me cough. She shouts for fear and shoots another time. This shot was almost next to my ear. Could’ve resulted in a graze shot. My left ear is dead. It’s a combo of screaming, crying and moaning with every fired shot. Her crying goes on, she pulls the trigger again and… it’s jamming. The gun blocks. The clip isn’t empty, but the trigger snaps. Yet Chloe keeps pulling the trigger nervously. I wish I had proper words to describe my feelings. I don’t have any own feelings. I feel hers and it’s beyond despair, love, fury and consternation. Put those altogether and you’ve got hatred.

Jesus, the cuts on my left jaw burn like fire. However that be, they aren’t bleeding. Chloe throws the gun at me and subsequently cries, “Why can’t I just fucking kill you?” and she falls over on the couch. Ouch, that thing hit me hard on my chest. This is going to become a wide bruise. “I hate you Max, I hate you! You hear me! Go to hell!” she intensifies her pain and obsesses about the hatred against me. On my left, I see the bullet that hit the word “Rachel” on the wall. Chloe gave up her struggle. Even the box filled with letters quivers along with her. Should I pulse back and fix it? Fix what? Chloe just doesn’t know how to handle this pain. I watch to my crouch. The jammed gun and blood on the blanket beneath. What? I touch my cheek and still, there’s no blood. The burning questions about William aches in my chest. I wish, Chloe will understand.

Still I’m surprised that Chloe didn’t hit me again. Yesterday, Monday, I assumed that she’d end me right there. But… she also hesitated, then. And she was closer, by all means. The shot against my arm… was it deliberate or not? I’m rather confused. I wonder if in some reality, I’m bled out already. At the same time, I realize that her random fire around me almost destroyed my ears. It beeps in my ears, my head. Should see an ear specialist, if Chloe keeps up her inner Rambo.

She’s a wreck. Look at her. Does she even know where’s up and down after her erratic fire at will? “Can I ask one more question?” I try to revive this “silence of the lambs-quid pro quo doodad”. “Shourah…” Chloe cracks out of her throat while her right eye wrings out another tear that glitters in the sunlight. I think, she has said ‘sure’. I go on,

“What happened to William?” oh my, this question was easier to ask than for her to hear. She knew I was going to ask this. She tried to distract me with this stupid game plus me as a target. Her tears glint as the sun drops a rectangular box of light onto her face. Her eyes sparkle, her face becomes deadly pale. She knew this all the time. She didn’t make up the rules to feel dominant. She wanted to buy some time and make me forget my intent to ask about her father. A little sliver of glass lays on my back. Carefully, I brush all the dirt off my back. Chloe cries more. I get up and… “Don’t come near me!” she warns me quietly. I stop in front of her. “This is _my_ pirate ship, not ours anymore!” Chloe defends the rotten couch, she’s almost sleeping on. I assumed that she ‘trusts’ me somehow?

“I thought, we had time enough. I thought, Joyce could answer this dreadful question without me. I was mistaken. It’s all up to poor Chloe. Of course, it’s me, again. Try to cope with your father’s death when somebody else doesn’t remember his own malicious dickmove,” her voice cracks all the time. I hope she has the strength to answer me before she totally gives it up.

“Go back and leave me be.” she tells me, because I’m still standing in front of her. I head back, grab the blanket and cover my legs with it. Chloe digs her fingers into the scalp and massages. Gee, I can hear the hair brushing around her skull. Some of her hairs come undone. She looks up and uses her gained power to answer, “You know. I’ve got a question and an answer for you. You dipped my life into shit like for over five fucking years. You wrote letters and beautiful poems, short stories to soothe my unbearable pain. Instead of me, coping with my father’s death, I was addicted to those letters. Now, knowing that _you_ are the only possible author, makes William’s death even more horrible. Those letters…” she draws attention to the box next to her and then goes on, “…they revived him inside of my heart. Now, since you’re back and can’t remember **jack shit** , I don’t know why I should answer you. You know nothing about Rachel, nothing about me, nothing about your own fucking tons of letter and nothing about the abyss you’ve pushed me in. Now, I should reach for your hand after all your actions? I shoulda listen to the warnings, instead of your gossip and shot you dead! But I can’t let you die,” she loses it. I can’t play tough here. I need the answer. I look at her. Hope she can read the wish from my face. “Because I thought about William and he drove my hands all over the place. He would be mad at me, if I shoot at a… friend…,” she adds and swallowed when saying ‘friend’.

“You still want to know, right?” she asks one final time. I just nod, however, she wouldn’t see me with so much tears in her eyes. She continues, “William got Joyce’s phone call. He searched for his keys and told us to take care, because he’d run an errand with my mom. He hasn’t even left our street and - all the sudden - you told me that we must take the bus which was headed to the shore, because ‘it was all a _surprise_ by you and my parents’. I was happy. That evening couldn’t have gone any better. And a _surprise_? Why not? We both went to the next bus stop and headed to a fairly strange place. An old shed. But you guided me through shrubs and thicket. Reaching a lonesome junction in the darkness, we stopped and… I didn’t expect it to happen. Your _surprise_ was William’s accident. To watch him being hit… to see his car blazing up. You know what this did to me?” Chloe screams into the cloth beneath her face. From pale to red. This look is indescribable. I feel some sort of undertow on my fingertips. The urge to do something although it’s too late.

“I watched his car burning in front of my eyes and you did nothing. You just stood there and watched it… happening. I saw his blood and guts smeared across the road. It’s a burnt imprint deep inside of my soul. You jinxed this car crash, didn’t you? Tell me, how to cope with so much shit. I never wanted to see you again. Ever,” Chloe pauses here to sit up straight and take a breather, “Fuck… I’ve just realized, that I’ve never talked to anyone about this. Not even my mom knows this. Hell, I’m telling my _old best friend_ what she did to dip my life in shit. Max, you are evil. I will never forgive this. I told Joyce that you were evil, but she doesn’t believe my feelings up to this very day. You need more _specifics_ , now?” she ends with this rather ironical question. Yep, opening your feeling to the _murderer_ with grave amnesia must feel like destiny. After all, it’s hard to believe, what she’s just told me. I want to distrust it, but this is how this timeline became solid. I need to understand my reason to put her into so much misery. Obviously, I used another polaroid image to change that event in the past again. Didn’t I throw this image into the chimney fire? Weird…

Chloe hugs the box of letters and cries. Her precious treasure on her pirateship among her home away from hell. I’m sure, she fights her inner hell. If you can define her struggle with ‘fighting’, if anything. And I assumed that she was up to no good. She tried to avoid my question. That’s that. I’ve never seen her crying like this. I can clearly memorize her loud wailing after we’ve found Rachel’s dead body… oh shit… I totally forgot that I had a vision about her dying, just ten minutes ago. I want to play the melody on my guitar. After all, the foreign German student did get me some fresh strings. For the very first time, I like what he did. Although I’m very sure that it was Kate who suggested this. Chloe struggles against her flooding tears but I know she wants to say something, “Let’s play ‘one lie and one truth’. First, ‘Max fucks with my life and I can’t put an end to it’. Second, ‘Rachel will come back to save me’,” is she pretending or is she… “Answer me **!** ” okay I should better play with her, before worse happens, “First, true and second is a lie. “Explain **why** it’s a lie!” now she’s going nuts.

“She won’t come back, because she’s dead if she comes back to you,” I give my best to do her a favor here. But it feels so wrong. “She is dead, Max. Frank’s relapse is the worst, she screamed into the phone, when she’s called me like five minutes ago. He will hurt her. I want to save her. I love her…” Chloe turns her back on me and cries again. Frank had a relapse, but he wouldn’t hurt Rachel. Or is he another person here, too?

“Why the game Chloe? Why were you playing this with me?” I try to change it. “I want you to feel the same. What goes around, comes around, you know. Quid pro quo, isn’t it?” with a very evil tone on her voice. “I wish someone was taken away out of your life and we were squat. But nothing will get my father back. Both your parents love you, Max. They heard your cry for help and travel down all the way from Seattle to Oregon, just to kiss your ass. The only person, my mother cares about is the moustache stepdick asshole zit, DAVID! To hell with you! Killing you would’ve been too unsatisfactory” I can’t describe what I’m experiencing. “Can we leave this place? I don’t want to stay, where Rachel was actually buried,” I tell her to remind her, that I know the story, I wrote to her. “Fuck everything here,” Chloe shouts while getting up from the couch. I try to repeat it one more time.

“Chloe, what if I told you that I had a vision about Rachel being buried alive and the main character she was thinking of, were you. Jefferson had killed her with an overdose and I’m vowing that I experienced every bit of her body in real time… every pain. And she heard a song. Tabs of a guitar. Chords and notes, an entire composition. My only wish would be, that you come with me and listen to the song. Then you can leave. Just be with me, that’s all I ask for!” while I’ve been talking to her I’ve also gained the feeling that her aggression and fury is over and it’s all cool. All about William is out. I know much more about this reality, thanks to Chloe’s cruel game.

I don’t understand the reasons I had for her to suffer that way. Maybe the Max in the psychiatry will tell me more. “Max, just look at you. Go to the next best mirror and have a look inside. You aren’t yourself. I start to believe that you are a totally altered personality who tries to fix his life-time fuck-ups. Are you sure you want to stay with me?” that was maybe the sanest thing I’ve heard in days… or whatever time measurement you’d prefer. Nonetheless, she’s totally right. Whenever I think about the Real-Max in the asylum it sends me a shiver through my spine because she’s so damn different. She’s the evil part of the puzzle. However, I’ll stick to the plan and experience the greatest week of my life to get the Real-Max out of her agony along with the rubber room.

Chloe looks back to the box and says really sadly, “I was reading all those letters here. There was so much thought put into them. And now, I’m sitting in front of the person who brought me into this mess. Ah whatever, let’s get the hell out of here. Goodbye, junkyard. I don’t want to see you ever again,” she gets up and heads to her truck. “Chloe, I need my trousers,” I call for it. “Here,” she throws my blood-smeared jeans into my face through the opening frame of the den. Yuck, thanks. I jump into the jeans and notice that it’s entirely tattered. I must support it with my hands so that it’s not slipping off my waist. She comes back into the den with a lighter. “Chloe, what…,” I ask her but she has already ignited the couch. The box with her letters of despair are burning, too. “Who cares, anyway? This dimension is fucked. I can do whatever I want,” she talks to herself and grabs her gun, which has dropped on the ground, after I got up to get inside my tattered jeans. She walks away ignoring me.

Her truck howls up. She honks rapidly twice. I hobble to her car and make my way in. The incrusted blood is gone. Well, I wouldn’t barf, since I’ve heard enough sick shit for today. Serious, shit. “That could’ve been you in that fire, if I had shot you. I read all those letters – over years – on my pirate ship and now I leave it burning with its treasure,” Chloe says totally lifeless. She shifts into the first gear and ignores me, “Fuck you Rachel, that was the last time, I’ve wasted my time thinking about you.” I’ve caught onto, it’s easier to render her insane. It’s sad she burnt all her letters, “Have you just burnt all of them?” so I ask her. Chloe grits her teeth but answers, “Fuck no. But doesn’t everything loop here? It doesn’t fucking matter, what I do. You change it anyway.” Leave her alone, Max, relax and quit rendering her insane.

While leaving, a thick dark cloud arises out of their old brick wall sanctuary. She set everything on fire. I dunno, I’ve never met Rachel in person, but I feel sorry for how Chloe talks about her. With the tires spinning and shooting dirt behind, the truck scrams. Chloe scratches the back of her head all the time. Guess, this adventure wasn’t anything compared to the letters she read or any event with Rachel.

We approach a hoarding with some graffiti smeared over it. It reads, “Honk if you like boobs” and Chloe scares the shit out of me, because she really honks. A driver from a crossing car startles and shakes the car to the right, as Chloe honks. I shake my head, which Chloe sees. She asks me a little playful, “What? It doesn’t matter what we are doing here? This reality isn’t reality!” - “Mind, if I take a nap? All this has made me fairly tired,” I want to know. “Suit yourself… your Majesty,” she waves about in front of the steering wheel.

A black hole. The beautiful acoustic guitar. Dropped down to C. Two entire musical tone steps. The strings flutter as you pluck them. They flap against the guitar’s neck. Their swaying of the strings when the body is pressed against your chest makes you feel serene. I’m unity with my instrument. Music pulsates thru the veins. Air keeps my lungs and breath in a constant flow. Here’s nothing but the guitar and I.

Something pokes my shoulder. “You want me to start with my next dose of grass or can we go to your room, Memorize Max?” she wakes me. Memorize Max? Christ, first Michael and now Chloe. Do they know each other? Does Daniel know Chloe? No, no more questions asked. We leave the parking lot and head to the dorms. It’s as deathly silent as on a grave yard, here on campus. No soul around. Soothing and relaxing. I could get used to this. Miss Grant leaves the academy and spots me. I avoid eye contact, although I would’ve liked a chat with her. I need no further consolidation, for today. Chloe ruined my mood entirely. I need some music or I’ll die.

Good thing the composition is still present in the back of my head. This negates the fact that my visions are akin to vivid _dreams_. Dreams are something you’d normally forget. But those visions are… more… maybe prophecy. Given the fact, that I remember the bullet in Chloe’s belly and her exact train of thought. I can’t tell her, that it’s all still present in my mind.

We enter the dorms and take the stairs up to the girls’ dormitories. And even the hallway here is empty. Haha, Chloe has almost stumbled over the splayed toilet paper. I can’t suppress a quiet chuckle. We got into my room. A sticky note on my guitar. It had been stringed. And I mean, properly. Someone knows how to tame my old lady. Chloe sits on my bed.

Hey Max,

we’ve tidied up your room and took care of your most beloved guitar. I’d also know someone to resew your plushy bear. Please refill Blackwell’s soul with some music. A violin alone won’t change, so do us a favor, please.

Dana cried after I had offered some help. You have a gift. And it’s not only photography. It is empathy expressed with your pictures. And maybe it’s beyond!

And take this ancient clock. You need to get a better feeling about time.

God will guide you anyways!  
hundreds of strong hugs

Kate

Chloe looks at me with a big question mark on her face. I smile, drop the note and grab my guitar. Let’s honor the junkyard angel who listened to this melody. Must drop the strings down to C, first though. This will take a while. It’s a lie when I say, that I’ve got all the time I need, I mean, Kate obtained a clock for me. At least, Chloe behaves as though she got all the time in the world. Let’s rock and feel the pain of Rachel whom I’ve never faced in my life. This is for all of you. I hit the first strings. It sounds right. Correct! I can’t believe it. Chloe watches me playing but obviously distrusts my skills. I pluck all strings and mess up a single tone. Sigh… “Try again,” I talk to myself hoping that Chloe won’t lose her patience. But then, it runs perfectly fine. Chloe’s distrust has turned into awe?

Think about it all. The junkyard, think about Chloe’s pain. Think about the car crash that you have made her look at. Think about how you surprised Chloe with her father’s death. Feel her pain, feel Rachel’s pain. I grasp the guitar even harder. I feel the urge to time travel with music. Tightening the grasp around the guitar’s neck, my body feels some sort of electricity surrounding the strings.

I’m holding my position. I didn’t change time. The humming of the whales sounds atrocious. I hear Chloe crying in pain… so much pain. Everybody watches me standing on the roof. I’ll jump… I’ll jump alone…

“Argh…,” my head pounds. Chloe startles on my bed and gapes at me. Does she sympathize with me? Doesn’t matter, I go on with the song while thinking about the strange pulse I had, “Max… do it!” I talk to myself and finish the song. Think about what Chloe has told you. It’s a lie that she loves you. She doesn’t love you. Your actions created distrust, hatred and grief. You chose to ruin Chloe’s life, so that she had determined to forget you as a friend and hates you to death. Consider the pain when she has realized, that the author is her nemesis. Her teenage angst was built up on the crash, she had to watch. And the only thing that drives my fingers along the frets are Rachel’s final thought within the reality, that I never came from but can only remember.

Chloe falls on her knees. I don’t care, right now. She covers her face and digs her fingers into her eyes. I can’t see you! The last chord echoes. I’m done with the song. Putting the guitar aside, I gladly say to myself, “Perfect”. Long pause… and silence. Chloe moans and snivels. It’s the first time I’m feeling strong again. Really strong. So long, bad feelings. Something writes on my skin and it’s definitely not me. Real-Max feels the satisfaction. Score!

I stand up and approach my best friend. Chloe looks up to me with little streams of tears drawn along her cheeks. She dodges my approach and says with an almost destroyed voice, “Goodbye, Max.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decisions made by Max (their importance/weight is kept secret):
> 
> -She ignored Chloe’s favor and used her powers along with Chloe, which hurt her  
> -She joined Chloe’s game and put plain questions primarily  
> -She asked two questions at once and thus forced Chloe to overcomplicate the game  
> -She insisted on her first question and incensed Chloe much further  
> -She chose to lie about the burning horizon at the beginning  
> -She determined to play Chloe’s game as best as she could  
> -She insisted to have written the letters, which infuriated Chloe further  
> -She corrected Chloe’s aim by pulsing back in time and advised her to aim lower to not kill her instantly  
> -She asked the painful question about William’s day of death  
> -She convinced Chloe to stay at her dorm room for a song on her guitar  
> -She ignored Miss Grant at the entrance of Blackwell 
> 
>  
> 
> “Memorize Max” (Events or occurrences everybody took note of, including Max):
> 
> -Max thought about Mark’s story and distrusted it somewhere  
> -The graze on Max’s leg got infected and ached horribly as Chloe had touched it  
> -Chloe didn’t want to see Max again, but helps her out with her infected injury – drove her to the hospital – and drove her to the junkyard  
> -Max had yet another vision… from the reality she can only remember  
> -Max heard a melody of a guitar in that very vision  
> -Chloe played “quid pro quo”, for getting her answers about the burning horizon and being abandoned again  
> -Max found out about who took care of her sore leg  
> -Chloe loses it more and more, the further Max messes up the game  
> -Chloe found out about Max’s way of utilizing her superpowers  
> -Max found out about Rachel’s and Chloe’s reasons for being expelled  
> -Chloe found Max’s answers overly conspicuous which had turned their game into a fight  
> -Chloe didn’t react to the “red miracle” question  
> -David allegedly hit Chloe, the day before  
> -Chloe found out about the burning horizon  
> -In one of Max’s answers, she had admitted that talking to Mark was more important than being there for Chloe  
> -Chloe had turned the game into something totally different and ridiculous to gain the upper hand  
> -Rachel called Chloe and Chloe picked up the phone desperately  
> -Chloe shoots around Max in sheer despair and aggression  
> -The random shooting around Max cut little wounds in Max’s face – her left jaw  
> -Chloe told Max about William’s accident  
> -A nerve had been struck in Chloe’s mind, as Max asked about William’s death -> the consequence being, that Chloe suddenly withered away and lost her invulnerability  
> -Memories about William broke Chloe’s back and crushed her persistent repression  
> -Chloe averred she didn’t have feelings for Max  
> -The box filled with letters along with the pirate ship had been set on fire  
> -Chloe drove Max to Blackwell  
> -Kate left a little letter to Max with a clock, although Kate should’ve known about Max’s powers  
> -Max played the song she had heard in her vision on the guitar with Chloe being present  
> -Max was able to pulse while playing music and thinking about a lot of negative emotions  
> -Chloe says Goodbye


	12. Left for good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max doesn't understand Chloe's last words to her. After transcending the next checkpoint in time, she's bound and determined to follow Chloe and prevent the worst. What's worse than life, death and everything between?

**Chapter 12 – Left for good  
Theme Song: dream, ivory – welcome and goodbye**

What to say? I stopped talking about time we’ve wasted. I stopped thinking about terms we use to define time. I’d rather think about more adjectives to describe the red-haired girl, that I met for the very first time ever, one day ago. I don’t give a rat’s ass about if it’s a day or not. Chloe didn’t recognize me at the parking lot because she threw me out of her life, five years ago. That explains why she wasn’t deposited on my phone. Was that really about it? Was that Real-Max intention? Creating a solid timeline in which Chloe and I were strangers? No storm, no rash accidents with lethal consequence, but an even more disturbed and broken Chloe instead? Not to mention our broken friendship, which I desperately try to revive. And look, it’s Tuesday and Chloe bids her goodbye already. And the way she pronounced it, she certainly doesn’t want to live any longer.

I try to draw her attention back to me and to start a conversation, “You’ve ever listened to this song?”. I smile at her. Hope, I’m now better at pretending to smile. The worst fight is to dissemble my emotions. My fear for her loss. Chloe doesn’t answer and walks heads to the door. Man, she’s such a mess. I block her way and smile again. “Please, just let me go,” she talks to me totally exhausted. Chloe in all her facets. I’ve seen all her most emotional reactions within 24 hours Mostly negative emotions if anything. But it cannot be, that she’ll walk away and commit suicide. Right? She wouldn’t do that to David and her mother? “Chloe listen…” – “Max, I don’t want to stay here and ever come back. Thanks for the… nice tune on your guitar. Keep up the playing,” she cracks a smile, although her mood instantly weights down her lips. She rubs her wet face through the cloth at her shoulder. “Step aside, Max and please… no more magic,” she finishes and pushes me a little aside. She leaves my dorm room. I thought, music might cheer her up.

I walk back to my couch and contemplate the freshly stringed guitar. A fairly decent job had been made. I stroke above the wooden surface of the body. Even my hand makes the string resonate inside the sound hole. Beautiful. I should learn ‘Don’t Stay Here’, although it’s not cut out for an acoustic guitar. Well, what else can I do today, to improve the 2015th Max’s mental state? Create less dumb sentences would be a decent start. I reckon, helping Dana with her problems, should get me somewhere. It could be the good deed for today. I walk outside my room and latch the door. Nobody should snoop around. Damn, the hallway’s empty. Where is everybody? I walk down the hallway and approach Dana’s room. I knock on her door. “It’s open,” a dry voice answers shortly after. I enter her… Jesus, what happened to Dana’s room? No posters, no colors, no dresses. Where’s her older self?

She’s lying on her bed reading a book. I wish, I could tell which one, but she’s been too fast with putting it away. It has a blue cover. That’s all what I can tell. At least, she cracks a smile, because I’m there. “Max!” Dana gets up from her bed and runs into me. Embracing me. Uhm, hi, I guess? She doesn’t let me off. Seems like she needs something to cling on. First the book, now me… fair enough. I smell her new fragrance. Hell, everything here is so… vapid. Where are her cheerleader dresses? Where is the colorful room that I remember? Her hair is undone and shaggy, her room appears to be like mine, after Nathan - or Victoria - had devastated it. “Kate has talked to me. Was that your idea? She was so nice and humble. At first, I tried to banish her, but she was stubborn and stayed. Will you stay, too?” oh my, she’s so cute. How can she be so down? “Sure, will I stay. Everything to make you feel better,” I can cheer her up. Finally, a little peace on this rather broken up Tuesday. I glance at her pregnancy test, but uh no, I’m not gonna touch that.

“I always think, ‘today is my last day’ but then I saw what happened to you. And just a minute ago, I’ve seen a beautiful red-haired punk-girl who must’ve gone through worse than me. And don’t get me started with Nathan,” Dana expresses her feelings. “Red-haired? You mean Chloe Price?” I ask her and realize, at the same time, that she can’t actually know her. “If that’s her name… My situation and this week have rendered me insane and then… Kate came and backed me, when I needed somebody the most,” Dana professes. Oh, this makes me so proud, that I told Kate to look after her. A good decision. Dana lets go off me. Longest hug in years – yeah, I mean it that way! A little tear leaves her left eye and she rubs it away instantly. “You don’t need to repress the tears, Dana. I’ve seen enough and I wouldn’t mind,” I smile. Dana grins and chuckles. “That was a tear of joy…,” she tells me. “Max, this day’s far from over, wanna hang out outside or maybe go shopping?” it’s great hearing such a question. She’s still old Dana somewhere.

“I gonna grab my bag and we’re ready to take the next bus, all right?” I agree with her idea. I leave her room and head back to mine. Yeah, this day is far from over... And I can change so many things to improve 2015. Who knows, maybe I’ll wake up at someone’s party instead. In lieu of the fun house. Perhaps I’ll see all the students crowded at one place reveling freedom and peace with Chloe on my side. Snoring on my shoulder or lap, sigh. Maybe at the bonfire around the windmill, oh man, those thoughts are exhilarating. Unless… wait! This day ain’t over, yet. Chloe bid goodbye to Rachel, burnt her letters, said goodbye to me in a fairly broken way, she said this reality wasn’t reality. Is she gonna… I’m so stupid. She’ll commit suicide. If this is true, it will bring me back to the psychiatry. Fuck no, I must avert that risk.

C’mon, open you bastard. My lock doesn’t budge. Why’s my key stuck in there. “Open up already!” I yell at the door. Finally, it budges. I run inside, grab my bag and… shit my camera has fallen out. Fuck it’s broken. Not again. Other stuff is more important, right now. I close the door behind and lock it and my head suddenly seems to be so empty.

\--------

The sound of a bell chimed…

\--------

I’ve… I’ve been reset to Dana’s room. She has tied up her hair and smiles at me. I’m leaning against the doorframe. Shit! Now, Chloe might be everywhere. Gotta find her quickly! Dana looks somewhat confused. “Max?” she asks me. Chloe is more important, right now. I leave Dana waiting in her room. “I’m sorry,” I shout while leaving. I’ve got not much of a choice here, I’ve just transcended another checkpoint. Pulsing would reset me back to Dana. I run downstairs and Daniel comes across in the staircase. “Oh, hey, Max. Can we talk for a minute,” he immediately tries to speak to me with a pretty unstable voice. His tone has changed but not his entire appearance. “Sorry, Daniel, no time, text me on my phone,” I fob him off and rush through the ground floor hallway. Chloe, I’m coming for you!

Outside the dorms it still is so empty. Logan and Zach are chatting on the bench. Both of them look away, as I try to say ‘hi’. Whatever, jerks! I run to the parking lot and try to catch Chloe. I see her truck leaving the parking. Okay, that means, I finally understand, how 2013 runs. I must get someone’s ride, or steal… no, there must be a… the German… Siegbert! He was also about to leave. “Hey, you!” I shout. Damn, he’s getting more and more important. He’s not a small piece of this mystery, he’s a part of it. I need his name. He looks behind and waves, as he sees me running for my life.

“Get in the car!” I scream. Man, this is exhausting. My lungs start to burn. I enter his car and... Siegbert Dongle starts the engine. “What’s the matter, Max?” he asks me. “Follow the truck that has just left!” I tell him. Ouch, forgot how broken the dampers are. Siegbert sure has problems, getting this thing to move. “What is this gonna be? Push it!” I yell at him. “What’s wrong? Please, you make me nervous!” he answers. Sure as hell, he’s not lying. He shivers with both hands. You can feel his shivering whenever he steers the car. I spot Chloe’s truck in the distance. Man, she left my dorm pretty slowly. But driving is a whole other story. “Will you please tell me, what’s going on?” the German yaps at me. We approach a traffic light. It’s turning red. “Are you nuts? Go push it!” I constrain him to hurry up.

“No, I won’t bring us into any danger,” he refuses. Gee, nice. I’ll have to rewind. Excuse us, ‘ _pulse’_!

I clench my right fist and move us with a backwards motion. I concentrate. I try to hold my thoughts on Chloe. To retain the clear intent to brighten her mood. Sure thing, I’m not suffering. I’m not choked around my throat. Score.

“What’s wrong? Please, you make me nervous!” he repeats. “Please, drive like ten miles per hour faster. I… I… forgot to bring her back her wallet,” I lie to him. He… accelerates around five miles per hour. Holy, we will never make it across the traffic light. Shoot. Again, he stops at the red light. Gotta rewind us again.

I clench my right fist yet another time and try to focus. Hold my thoughts. Chloe is in… danger. Shit the strangle hurts! Where am I going? Oh shit, the chime is too loud!

I cough while Siegbert Dongle iterates his previous sentence. “What’s the matter? You need some water?” I evidently moved us further away and he took note of my sudden cough. “This girl in that truck, have you ever seen her?” I ask him first. “Yeah, she looked down,” he responds. I use his words to get his slow ass moving, “This girl is about to commit suicide, so will you please go for it and catch her?” – “Oh fuck, not again!” he reacts very sadly.

I don’t want to say, I trust him or even like him, but there is something that makes him interesting. Perhaps it’s because he has used bad language for the first time in somebody else’s presence. “Come on, old thing,” Siegbert talks to the old ride, he’s driving. We’ve almost passed the traffic light at red. “Whoa, I’ve got a déjà-vu,” he realizes. “You’d experience those more often when I’m around,” I admit to him. “Huh, funnily enough, I had the exact same feeling when I was entering the Diner. Your aura is amazing,” Siegbert Dongle lets me know. I’m left in disbelief that I still don’t know his name. “Would you please tell me your…,” – “Not now, Max, I’ve got a bad feeling about… stupid English… I think we are… FUCK, I’m getting paranoid,” the Mister Dongle goes nuts. Christ, he really has no idea about what stress really is, right? He shakes.

We keep following her. “Don’t get too close, man!” I try to tame him. “Is she crying…,” Siegbert realizes Chloe’s condition within her rearview mirror. “Focus on the street, not at her,” I want him to focus. “She has some tats…,” he adds. Oh my, he’s wrecking my nerves. I remember this route. It’s basically the way back to her housing area. “Stop here!” I tell him before entering her block. “My flat’s just two blocks away from here, I’ll go and get the rest of my stuff there, okay?” Siegbert wants to know. “Flat? You mean your… apartment?” I ask back, “Yeah, I’m sorry. Eh, Principal Wells couldn’t provide me a dorm room back, when I was in Germany. And since the dorm room is so much cheaper, I was able to cancel the lease. You know what I mean?” he explains his boring-ass life and asks at the end if I understood his mixed accent of British, German, French and Dongle. “I guess,” I finish our petty talk and head to the Prices’ house. “You need my help with this suicide... prevention?” he cat-calls me. “No, I’ll see you here in a bit,” I shout back. “Goodbye, Max. I see you then!” the German says goodbye. At least, he’s somewhat polite and worried.

I run to Chloe’s house and hope, that either Joyce or David are at home, as well. For the very first time, I would be glad to meet David again, if he was home. I should talk some sense into his turbulent mind. Chloe, here I come. I put Dana and Daniel off. You are all that matters to me. There we go. I ring the doorbell. Through the entrance I can hear both Chloe and Joyce quarrel about something. Man, Chloe has kept up her quarrelsome wit against her mom. Poor Joyce.

“Coming,” Joyce friendly shouts. The door opens and… look at that beautiful face. Joyce smiles, “Chlo… Max, my… come in,” she reacts a little overwhelmed, “Welcome, Max!” she rapidly adds to her afore-said sentence. “Who’s there,” David shouts from the dining table. Joyce closes the door behind and embraces me. “You don’t know how glad I am to see you again, after such a long time. Yesterday, I felt like I’ve seen my daughter with you at the good ol’ booth in my diner. One day later, you are here. It’s so nice,” Joyce almost whispers. David’s chair squeaks. He gets up and walks to the entrance hall. Now it’s time to face the truth. How will he react? He wouldn’t expect me to knock on his door, at all.

“Max Caulfield…,” but he stops right there as he looks inward. “Oh, so, you know Max already? Right, from Blackwell,” Joyce deduces very delighted. “Max, you’ve gotta eat. David… eh, Chloe you’ve got a visi…,” Joyce interrupts her own sentence, because Chloe cranked up the volume. Obviously, she has noticed my return. First, I want to use this moment to confront David. Joyce hurries into the kitchen and heats up the rest of their dinner. They’ve just eaten. “Where have you been, all day? Aren’t you supposed to be in the hospital?” David surprisingly starts talking during reading the newspaper which reads, ‘Dark days at Blackwell – Famous photographer Mark Jefferson arrested on suspicion’. But before I could read further, David drops the newspaper and… wow he looks more worried than grimly. The pans in the kitchen crackle and sizzle the meal. David uses this situation to lean forward and whisper. “I know, who you are. I don’t know how to say sorry, but… I **knew** something was going on,” and he almost apologizes. “Actually, I came here to be there for Chloe,” I own up to it.

“You wrote all the letters, didn’t you?” he immediately confronts me. Ah dammit. Can’t you leave me alone for one bloody second? I guess, I should look after Chloe. If she was at risk to put her life to an end, she would definitely not do it in her own house. “Miss Caulfield, you hear me?” David interrupts my train of thought. Sigh, it seriously bugs me, that my rewind powers had improved the duration to think about something smart to answer. Fast talk, so to speak, “Call her Max, David. She’s a good friend and hasn’t been around for years,” Joyce kindly shouts from the kitchen. “Whatever, Max, I asked you a question,” he insists. Damn… I presume, it’s saner to say the _Chloe-truth_ in this case. “No, I didn’t write any of them… to her. I was being a bad friend,” is the best way to answer his question.

“Shush, Max! You aren’t a bad friend. You had other things to do in your life. Anyway, David asked you, because he thinks that Chloe had been received big amounts of letters over the past few years. Up till today. And I gotta admit they’ve all been similar to your manner of speaking and writing, sweetheart,” Joyce joins us at the dining table. She pets David’s back and gives his moustache a kiss… I- -I mean David a kiss. Excuse me.

Joyce looks at the chair I’m currently supporting myself on and back up to me, “What are you waiting for, kid? Go, have a seat and let me serve you!” a little playful and perhaps astounded. Maybe it’s the mere sight of me. Definitely a sight to behold. I could be the hanging skeleton in biology class at primary school. Something bangs loudly. We all startle. Joyce and David look inside the kitchen and I head to the stairway. The music still blasts very loud out of Chloe’s room.

“Oh no, no, no. The toaster gave up. The coil exploded. You believe this, David?” – “Don’t **EVER** do that again,” I talk to myself. “Huh, what do you mean?” Joyce looks puzzled out of the doorframe to the kitchen during smoke shoots out of the opening vent of the toaster. Rest in peace bread fryer. David, unimpressed, lingers at the dining table and has continued reading. “I mean my life,” I answer Joyce’s legitimate concern. “Oh, man. I’m gonna throw that goddamn stereo out the window,” David grunts, the chair’s legs squeak and grate above the carpeted floor.

David almost bumps into me, but I head him off with my right hand raised. “I’ll take care of it, David,” I talk to him, “That’s Mister Mad… I’m sorry. Yesterday… has…,” and Joyce breaks in, “David! Don’t talk about that. Max, go upstairs and see to it that Chloe doesn’t use her stereo as a sledgehammer. My, the walls are shaking.” Yep, thank you folks. I’m outta here. “Talk to you, soon,” I say while leaving. “Ask Chloe, if she wants something to eat. Please be back _very_ soon,” Joyce shouts out of the kitchen.

“Man, I could’ve sworn I had a déjà-vu,” I can hear her talking to David while I’m walking up the stairs. God, I can’t even tell if it’s music or a wobble-dub-wub parade inside her room. Whatever that is. It sounds more like chaos rather than music. I knock on the door, but I know it’s pointless. I use the door handle but she locked it. Oh, fuck my life, then. I have to use my powers. Funnily enough, they come in handy, this very time, because I can teleport simultaneously.

“How was your day, darling?” Joyce talks to David. Another chair creaks, because Joyce assumedly takes a seat “Chaos. Wells, Prescott and I had to discuss security measures and tuition policy. I had always been preaching them to increase security, but I’ll remain the only guard at Blackwell. Sean Prescott wants to decrease his _generous_ donations since his son had been _murdered_. I know it’s nothing funny, but no one except for him thinks about murder,” David needs a long answer here. Murder, oh well, it depends on how you look at it. Maybe Nathan’s finger was – in a fraction of a second – not Nathan’s finger but… Juliet’s. Right… murder my ass.

“Oh, I’m so sorry for all of this. I don’t know how to remind you of it, but Troy called after you had left for work,” Joyce remembers him about a friend, I guess. “Troy, huh, how’s he holdin’ up? God, this music wrecks my last nerves,” David responds. I’m somehow proud, that they are together. Can’t quite remember, with whom I had sided on the _actual_ timeline. I hope nothing to rack my brain for, because I might experience another vision from an alternate reality, sooner or later. ‘Nuff said, concentrate and pulse into Chloe’s room.

I clench my fist and try to concentrate. I must manage to get in her room without altering time. I see your face, Chloe. Crystal clear. Think about a place to hide. I’m… done.

Whoa, great. I’m in her wardrobe. Haha, amazeballs – Chloe should use that word. I made it! I’m becoming adjusted to this deafeningly loud music of hers. I open her wardrobe and exit. Chloe lies on her bed. Six empty bottles of beer next to her. One bottle in her grasp. And she takes a sip. Some beer spills over her mouth, but she doesn’t shake it off. Hasn’t she spotted me, yet? I’m in the middle of her room waving like an idiot… I walk to the end of her bed. Well. still no reaction. Okay, Plan-B. Let’s play this one safe.

I approach her stereo and shut it down. Chloe scares and hiccups once. She struggles to move her head up straight. “Dude, how did… never mind,” she sounds pissed off and drunken. How much alcohol runs through her veins, right now? Grass and alcohol at the windmill, more grass at the junkyard and more beer at home. I was being afraid of her committing suicide, but she’ll more likely drink her way to death. “Grow up, you destroy your ears… plus your precious leftover braincells,” – “Fuck you,” a rather quick answer. “Tell me, how did you get here? I’m not that piss drunk. You performed magic?” she wonders. “I hid in your wardrobe,” I point at the opened wardrobe door. “Remember?” I ask her, since she seems unimpressed.

“Could you please switch to the next song?” she asks me for a favor. “Sure do, but just because you’ve said, ‘please’,” I reply grinning. Before I’ll turn this thing on again, I should lower the volume in advance. I turn it on and the blueish glowing display depicts, “dream, ivory – welcome & goodbye”. The word ‘goodbye’ is cut off at the letter B.  Huh, what an odd name, after all. Chloe moans and cringes in grief. She just lies there on her bed. With clothes ‘n shoes on. A bottle swings in her right hand while the leftover beer dabbles and spins inside the bottle. This creates a fairly dissolute impression. “Hiding in the wardrobe… you had thought, I would’ve been impressed? Hearing one of the letter’s details retold by you?” she asks me quite unconcerned and indifferently. Man, this song on her stereo is beautiful. Its beginning reminds me of Wonderwall. But despite that, it’s really unique.

“Fine, ignore me. Why don’t you just leave instead? Cut me a fucking break!” she talks while looking at the ceiling. She ignores me. My presence is unimportant to her. “I’ve heard you saying, ‘Goodbye, Max’ and I was afraid that I might never see you… ever again,” I try to explain it to her. “Yeah, of course, you’ll never see me again,” she retorts. “But, what is this, then?” I’m curious. I know it in my gut, this is not good. Nothing here seems nice or kind.

“You see that?” Chloe sits up and points her finger on the black blotch dot at the wall, telling us, ‘Hole to another universe’. I look at it and nod. “That’s _your_ definition of ‘Goodbye’, my definition means, ‘Goodbye to this horrible friendship’,” she stands up and staggers on her shaky legs. For her being drunk as shit, those words were clear enough to break me. I can’t hold my balance. I get down on my knees. The song on her stereo damn intensifies this feeling. The ground beneath my feet is gone. I’m sensing the feeling of free falling.

“What… urgh… what…,” I have no words. This phrase breaks me over and over and over. Chloe lies down. Her bed base creaks. “Now go. I’ve told you, ‘no more magic’ and you’ve teleported yourself in my wardrobe. Just get the fuck away,” she tells me to leave, “Committing suicide is pointless. Because I can’t get Nathan out of my head. It makes me sick thinking about death. You make me sick!” she loses her footing and keels over to her bed. The beer spills over her duvet. Chloe moans and crawls back on her bed.

C’mon Max, think at least partly positive. She’s not about to commit suicide as you had expected her to. On her desk, she has prepared box-shaped presents. I point at it and… whoa my finger quivers, my hand. Go ask her, “Whose… to whom…,” – “Get lost! I’ve got three bullets left and I’m not afraid to lose my mind again!” Chloe screams. David, downstairs, thumps towards the stairs. He’ll eventually come… her door is locked. The door handle… gee, I forgot. David also tries to open it, but as expected the door won’t budge. “Chloe, come down and please talk to us,” David hollers. Better than ordering or commanding. Time to leave. Leave by pulsing. Shall I rewind or keep the presence? Chloe might likely remember, but… no she should know, I came back for her. “Go, teleport away, fuck with time, fuck with others’ lives. I’m done here,” Chloe goes on a binge. My fingertips tingle. I don’t want to leave this place, but I better should. “I won’t give you up,” I tell her while using my powers.

I clench my right fist and focus. Don’t think about anything... ouch, shit! It’s all yet the fucking same. My gorge squishes, the whales screech out loud.

Whew, I’m outside of Chloe’s room. David gives up and walks downstairs again. He can’t spot me, either. My pulsing is witchcraft. Black dark magic I shouldn’t be permitted to use. “Fuck you,” I can hear Chloe answering to my last hopeful sentence. David has also heard this and turns back. As he sees me, he suddenly looks sad. He determines to walk downstairs and go back to the dining room.

I can’t hold my breath. I must cough. “Max, you all right?” Joyce shouts for me. “I’m fine…,” I press through my lips but then, I suddenly cough and cry at the same time. Repress it, Max. Don’t do it. I walk downstairs. Joyce awaits me. “Oh, sweetheart, I know it’s hard to have a sensible talk with her. Come on in. I’ve prepared something to eat. You don’t look too well,” Joyce still reacts extremely motherly. David, doesn’t seem to be a douche, any longer. All distress has left him, after Jefferson’s bust.

“Didn’t she give her gift to you? She proudly showed me this morning, because you surprised her with your return, yesterday,” Chloe’s mother talks while entering the kitchen and grabbing a hefty meal. A present? My appetite was low before, but now, it’s gone. “Sorry, to all of you. But I’d better go,” I walk backwards and excuse. “But you’ve just been here for like what… five minutes?” David surprisingly answers. “And you made that racket go away. I can’t even kindly ask her to flush after having a dump…,” he adds, but Joyce slaps his shoulder and reacts incensed, “David!”

“I’d better go. A friend is waiting outside,” my cheap way to exit this horrible place. Now, tell me how to play the guitar with this feeling in my fingers. Tell me about it! What’s that over there? Mark? In his cruiser? What’s he doing down here? I wave at him and give my best to smile. Nope, my muscles reject any attempt to smile. They keep up their sadness. Mark leaves his cruiser and straightens himself. He exhales out loud and walks towards me, “Max, my little doe,” and hugs me. Oh man, why is he of all people, leaving Arcadia Bay next week? I could fall asleep in his strong embracement. “Your eyes are red. Is there something you want to tell me?” he leans back and looks at me. I’d better stare to the ground. “Hey,” he smiles and drags on my chin to raise my head, “I should drive you back home,” he suggests. I follow him.

I’m bound to say his cruiser looks clean and tidy. No daub everywhere, no cigarettes, no decoration. Somewhat blank but a decent look, for a change. Mark puts his mirrored glasses away and clips them into the sun visor. He starts the engine and leaves this street. “Why are you spying on me?” I pretend to know something. Mark chuckles, “I wasn’t spying. I followed your insane German friend, I almost turned on my lights to chase him. If you hadn’t been inside, I’d have busted him for speeding? You seem to hang out more often with him.” Mark must’ve followed us. Yeah, understandable. Siegbert Dongle raced that old ride. Oh, shoot! I forgot that he’s waiting for me. Fuck. I don’t have his phone number. “What’s the matter?” Mark asks me, because he noticed my sudden startle. “I… never mind,”

I avoid thinking about any more trouble. I’d rather pulse back in time and tell the German, that Mark will drive me. But that sounds evil. I shouldn’t pulse again; my fingertips feel frozen. “So, I see, you’ve hurried to a good friend?” Mark asks again. He turns the radio on and we hear “Elliott Smith - Say Yes”. “Kind of…,” is the best answer I can give. “Kind of? What’s wrong?” he insists even more. “Besides, I’ve got other music here, as well. ACDC, Pink Floyd… and other Rock Bands. Elliott Smith was more or less a phase to soothe the pain about Amelie,” Mark explains his taste in music. Whatever, I’m not able to feel the power of music, this way or another. The aspect, that he’s just confided his unborn daughter’s name was the only perceptible detail. He neither had any time to say hello, nor goodbye to her. I can’t imagine any other phantom pain.

My throat hurts. Yet, not because of my recent pulse. It’s because I will tell him the reason for being down, sad and red inside my eyes. I breathe deeply, while a little tear tickles my cheekbone, “I left a friend for good.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Decisions made by Max (their importance/weight is kept secret):
> 
> -She determined to help Dana, first, but after realizing that Chloe could be at risk of committing suicide, she decides to leave Dana alone  
> -She fobbed Daniel off, who wanted to talk to her  
> -She convinced the German student to follow Chloe’s truck  
> -She lied to David about the letters – she told Chloe’s truth, so to speak  
> -She had to pulse inside Chloe’s room  
> -She determined to leave Chloe for good  
> -She decided to drive together with Mark and forgot the German, who was waiting for her
> 
>  
> 
> “Memorize Max” (Events or occurrences everybody took note of, including Max):
> 
> -Dana’s had evidently deteriorated and was glad of having Max around  
> -Logan and Zachary looked away, when Max was walking past them  
> -The German reacted to Max’s order to drive faster, as she mentioned that the girl they were chasing was at risk of committing suicide  
> -Chloe was fighting with her mom and David, when Max had reached their house  
> -Joyce realized Max’s bad physical condition  
> -David behaved decently and sensibly when Max talked to him  
> -Joyce defended Max, when Max meant that she was being a bad friend  
> -David appreciates Max’s help to lower Chloe’s loud stereo  
> -Max overheard Joyce and David’s conversation about some Troy who had called  
> -Max won’t ever forget Chloe’s last words  
> -A present was supposed to be given to Max  
> -Mark had followed the car chase but didn’t arrest the German, because Max was with him


	13. Caulfield-Mind’s Euthanasia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tuesday comes to an end. Max knows everything about her savior Mark and broken friend Chloe, what she needs to know. Consequences show up quickly and early. Kate being the only person left who could back Max and help her, Max determines to apologize to Daniel and Dana, but other stuff is happening in the meantime. Max is very likely going to jump forward to 2015, but will her future clone support and assist her? Alt-Max's ramifications of her deeds will leave a bearable impression?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Original date of release - October 2nd 2017 -

**Chapter 13 – Caulfield-Mind’s Euthanasia  
Theme Song: Ludovico Einaudi – Life**

What next? I’m waiting. I’m waiting for the next vision to kick in. The next pass-out-bullshit event. Being inside Jefferson’s mind and moving his hands to strangle myself unconscious? Just chill for one damn minute, Max!

Mark looks at me frequently. As if he’s anticipating a danger, like me opening the door and roll over the road, all of a sudden. Keep your eyes to the damn road, or we might hit the next tree. I’m not about to go away. It’s a bloody police cruiser, he can lock the doors, anyway. Perhaps, he’s just trying to come up with something positive.

“You came out of Mister Madsen’s house. You know him?” he asks out of nowhere. “I’ll be damned, your leg, your jeans… what has happened?” he piles up more and more questions. “Fell a little harsh,” I briefly answer him. Metaphorically you can likely call this entire day: plummeted harshly.

Mark finally looks straight and focuses on the streets. We’ve just left Cedar Avenue and head to the shore. Trees show up. They bend a little to the winds, since the weather looks a bit threatening. Still rays of sunshine are beaming down, albeit clouds will mask the summer weather shortly. Mark looks at me again, awaiting his answer.

“You know… just… I just need a little time… me time,” I answer him with my arms crossed. Watching the trees passing by. It’s hard to focus one at a time. The blur of motion caused by looking straight. Focusing one tree tightly and all others around will become blurry. Do this on and on, you’ll get a headache in no time. I remember doing this when I was watching train tracks.

I’m feeling so empty without her. I finally know all I wanted to know and broke Chloe’s heart with it. And certainly mine, the same way. Then, there’s Kate. I tore her away from the German. Is he that bad? I don’t know what to think. Mark indicates and is going to turn left. A truck honks. “Man, you got balls, usin’ the horn against a cop,” Mark talks to himself and raises an admonitory finger. After that he determines to turn the mp3-player off and powers the radio on. The radio host has just started reading the news.

“Arcadia Bay CRR News at seven, we’re back with some… interesting news, I might say. Good evening, I’m Wolff and… man, I personally cannot describe my thoughts to this. Firstly, at the beginning of this week, we had two gruesome occasions at Arcadia Bay’s prestigious academy, Blackwell. Sean Prescott visited us here in CRR studios and answered some burning questions. Respect for his strength and courage to speak to Arcadia Bay, however, things are becoming more difficult at Blackwell, since Sean Prescott cut all his donations.

After the tragic incident concerning his son, Nathan Prescott, there is talk of murder. Police of Arcadia Bay operate at full stretch...” Mark interrupts the host, “See me _operating_ at full stretch…” and the host Mr. Wolff finishes his news, “… but enough said about this strange October in Arcadia Bay. We’re here to listen to the Classic Rock and Pop masterpieces and forget about the world around us. Here we go with ‘Maria by Blondie’ Haha, I can’t believe that track’s almost 15 years old. I’m feeling so old, now. We’ll be back at eight for more news. Stay tuned and rock the Bay!”

God, _who_ murdered Nathan? Ever played “Where’s Waldo?” Looks similar. Billions of people around and anybody the alleged culprit. Mark cranks up the volume. “Sweet… I remember my proposal to this song,” Mark taps the rhythm on his steering wheel. “What did she say?” I ask him, although I don’t really care about it as much.

“Well, my wife’s name is Maria… and she didn’t stop laughing. Trust me, proposing to her, while dozens of people are watching, but she can’t stop laughing was quite a scene. Glad that was five years ago and I lost more than forty pounds. No one remembers my face anymore,” Mark strokes his face with the right hand and raises both his eyebrows. Well, that one got me. I must laugh. I chuckle and snort through my right palm. He pats my shoulder and smiles radiantly. Yeah, proposing to her to that song is a saccharine joke.

“Sorry, I don’t wanna salt those wounds, but why did you leave a friend for good? I mean, you guys are young, strong – especially you – and full of life, there are no reasons to use the term ‘farewell’, this soon,” good thing “Maria” brightened my mood a bit and Mark has to ruin everything. Sigh, nothing wants to leave me alone. “I had lied about something. Something that was important to her,” I answer and Mark instantly asks back,

“Her? I was wondering who could’ve been your friend in a house, David Madsen is dwelling in. I warned you about his stepdaughter’s turbulent soul. She’ll cool down eventually. I heard quite a story, when he was giving his wife a call, yesterday after your rescue,” he can’t stop talking about shitty things. “Can’t we change the subject to more… nice stuff? Like… do you like teddies?” whoa, my brain just no like conversation right now, it only do fart and poo.

“Actually, I… wanted to entrust you with something, but I beat around the bush. Anyway, yesterday at the diner…. I lied to you there,” he begins. Argh, what now? Is he a _Mark_ Jefferson clone? That would definitely bowl me over. Nothing else! “I’ll leave Arcadia Bay… and I’ll leave Maria the same… this was my last week here. I’m not in charge anymore. Though, I’m still allowed to use this cop car for one more week. I’m going to work for PPD, next month,” he concludes.

I push my forehead against the window. The sky turns gray. Please let it teem down to remind me of Kate’s jump. Birds cross my line of sight. Moving south? As long as it doesn’t _go_ south. Mark utters a sigh, clears his throat and goes on, “Look, you don’t… I know this isn’t fair, but… you know… after Sean Prescott’s son has killed himself, he almost bought the ABPD. He paid for all the equipment we used. Helmets, armory, ammunition, vehicles… I’m scared as shit. I don’t want to stay here. This place is hell,” now he shows all vulnerability at once. He snivels quietly. “I’m here for one last week, but I can’t come back to work for evil within – Prescott. I want to warn you: I think, Mister Prescott suspects you of having Nathan murdered. Be careful,” he drives more slowly at the end of his warning. Yeah, I’ve seen and heard of anything. I’d expect nothing worse.

The sky has turned darker. After the trees have gone by and the sea appears in the background, the windmill comes into my sight, as well. Where’s the light? Isn’t anybody maintaining that thing? Boats will crash… Arcadia Bay is decaying. Swell, I’d managed to remove the storm, but on the other hand the city is now tattering itself. “I’m sorry Max, I find, you should’ve known,” Mark sounds sad. Hey, I’ve lost Chloe today, nothing is going to be worse than this. Nothing. Considering how she had changed her mind, when she found out about Rachel and Frank – in the RV –, she might change her mind here, the same? Maybe she’ll crawl back to me on her knees. Bear in mind, she’s an entirely different person here, too.

Two ambulance cars cross our way. Pretty fast? Who’s next? The trucker had an heart attack, because Mark ignored his right of way? Stop it, Max. That’s not your kind of thinking. “Maria” has finished and Mark turns the radio off. Should he stay here at Arcadia Bay or leave? “Maybe two minutes and we’re there,” Mark says. “Don’t stay here,” I mutter. “What?” Mark asks and gazes to me. “I said, don’t stay here,” I repeat loud and clearly. He’s a good soul. He should run away as long as he can. Ouch, a sting in my chest. What happens? It twinges. It’s like I’m free falling. Is… is this my next vision kicking in? Oh fuck… it is!

“We need help here!” Michael screams while trying to keep me down. Fidgeting like a maniac, Michael together with another nurse are trying to hold me in place. This is no vision. I’m back in 2015. My whole body is shaking – adrenalized. As soon as my head is moving, every perceived image becomes a smeary blur. Motion becomes blurry, adrenalin shoots through my veins and heats under my skin. Within my chest, it’s seething. I’m defenseless. During this horrid event, I’m trying to calm myself. To calm the body. It doesn’t work. I’ve lost control. Wish, I could tell this was a vision or so, but it feels too real. Was I supposed to return to 2015 this early? Another doc enters the sick room. Everything looks as usual, but I don’t understand, why the sudden seizure. Just why?

The doc asks Michael, “When was she given her last sedative? Twenty minutes ago, or earlier?” Michael answers stressed, “The latter, Sir.” – “Heavens! I’m not going to inject yet another one!” the doc speaks to the contrary. “We try to hold her steady for over an hour and nothing helped. She’ll fidget her muscles into hospital!” Michael defends his request to sedate me. “Miss Caulfield’s condition is serious. Yesterday, she almost sucked 20mg of Clonazepam at once. We can’t treat psychosis if we keep rendering her unconscious,” the doc opposes Michael. “Then just… watch us fighting, Jesus Christ!” he swears and presses his big hand on my face to stop my erratic fidgeting of my neck and brace my head. I’m not feeling anything. I’m just… watching myself moving like being electrocuted with no end in sight.

\--------

The jarring of a bell rattles in my cranium…

\--------

I passed another checkpoint. Mark yells at someone. I made it back into his cruiser. I’m just waking up and shits already hitting the fan? After opening my eyes, the blur becomes sharper, colors pop, dusk is falling. Mark shouts something at the German. Cannot comprehend one of them, though, since every door and window is closed in this cruiser. I try to open the car door, but he locked me in. The German is obviously frightened by the police officer. Fun fact, if he knew, Mark isn’t at charge anymore, he could just ignore his stern rebuke. Mark really has discipline down pat. Seeing Siegbert Dongle being carpeted makes me pity him. Mark returns to his car. He’s realized my awakening and cracks a smile,

“Max, we’re back. We’ll… Max?” – “What time is it?” I ask him. “It’s… your heart leaps inside your mouth. You sure, you’re okay?” he’s concerned about me. Could be that my heart still races after my intermediate vision unto 2015. “What – time – is – it?” I ask him in syllables. Mark unlocks the car. “Eight pm, I didn’t want to interrupt your daydream. It looked so peaceful, at first glance,” he answers winded. Sure, had the most _peaceful_ seizure of my lifetime. Better get going. “Goodbye Mark… and, if you ever try to go back in time, propose with ‘Maria by Santana’!” I say while leaving. He parked, where Warren once was patiently waiting for his flash drive. Max, wrong timeline! Heck, where am I going? Watch your step and stop thinking!

Mark hasn’t left, yet. Maybe he ponders on what has been told. I pity his life. I can’t image losing your daughter without ever having seen her. The other side of the coin, knowing that your living daughter has been accidentally killed must be worse. I’m stuck in my own timeline again, for fuck’s sake. If Joyce would know anything about her Real-daughter’s fate… I wonder, what the Real-Max may tell me, when I return to 2015. She might likely be upset and uber-mad about the broken friendship and Chloe. I assume my vision wasn’t hallucinated and no figment, it more likely was a sudden jump of time. Nonetheless, I still feel the phantom pains all over my body. Gross!

It’s dark. First raindrops splash on my scalp and are imbibed by my hair. More follow, the rain is coming. Blackwell is dead. Just the way I like it. No soul around. Plenty space for me, for taking pictures. Speaking of which, damn… my camera broke when I was leaving. Shit, now what? First the guitar, now the camera? Wish, I could ask Victoria for an interims solution. Eh, if she hadn’t been up to no good, I would’ve surely asked her for that favor. I should talk to Daniel, since I fobbed him off, last time I saw him.

I enter the dorms’ entrance. In the boys’ dormitories, both police officers – who were guarding Nathan’s room – are gone. Good, let’s head to Daniel’s room. The slate is still blank. Should I write something. Hey, how about, “Michael was here” I wonder? Wouldn’t that be a nice surprise for him. After all, they are brothers. I pick the black pen and write it down and add a sweet smiley at the end. God, all the sudden I despise emojis, for no big reason…

I knock on his door. Silence. No voice, no noise. And, speaking of noises, it’s pretty dead here. No bigfoot stomps, no teenage gibberish at the walls but someone plays back music loudly. The German has some music… I shouldn’t disturb him. What genre is this? I walk to his door and eavesdrop with an ear, pushed against his door. Drum and Bass? The female singer repeats “Watch it burn” over and over. I’ll ask him later about that song. Always be open for something new, especially when it sounds great! I’d rather head back to Kate. She’s the sanest person around. Gracious and magnanimous. Then, let’s blow, since nobody seems to care about my presence.

A thunder rumbles throughout Arcadia Bay. The bass vibrates in my diaphragm. A nice composition of rain, wind, and occasional thunders in between. Cool, this really sounds like a melody on the roof. An orchestral performance by nature. Strings played by the wind, percussions and xylophone backing the raindrops and the thunder represents the big occasional drum. My footsteps digging inside the carpet floor, the metronome.

Using that rhythm to knock on Kate’s door, she almost immediately shouts, “Coming!” Her chair squeaks and footsteps rapidly come closer to the door. She opens with a wide grin on her face, “Max, come in please!”

Although I had experienced the malign broken heart syndrome in Mark’s car, her benevolent welcoming soothes that pain nicely. I grab her and embrace her as strong as I can. I sense my muscles within my body, tensing and growing. If one can call those little leaves under my thin skin muscles. All this tension makes me shake a little. “That everything?” Kate giggles. She returns the hug and… urgh! Almost breaks my back… literally.

“I expected Dana to show up, but seeing you makes me glad, as well,” Kate smiles. “Oh shoot, I forgot her. I hope she’s not mad at me… for running away like a loser,” I realize. “She talked to me, yes. Those are dark days at Blackwell. We must stick together. I’m talking of us students as a community,” she suggests. I don’t really make a lot of the religious stuff, she believes in; However, it encourages her to go on and on, no matter how dark the days have become. Mind you, I know her only vulnerable spot inside her strong mind… on another timeline.

“Oh dear, what have you done to your leg?” she startles and holds her hand in front of her mouth. She’s mesmerized. C’mon, it is just a stupid bandage around my bony leg. That’s that. “Just a wide abrasion which became infected,” I answer her. “You still have antibiotics in petto? They treated the wound well?” she’s afraid in an instant. “It’s all fine, Kate. Don’t worry about me,” I try to calm her down. To take her off those things, I’ll try to change the topic to something different, but serious.

“Kate, do you still trust me? Be there for me?” I want to know, since our sad short talk in the diner was a real bummer. “It’s a doctrine, Max. Benevolence is one of the basic dogmas, taught at church. And I can’t help but be there for you whenever things are getting intense. So yes, I’ll be there for you,” Kate tells me and strokes my shoulders. “And about trust, I have so many questions floatin’ around my head. First, you like the new strings on your guitar? I heard ya playing this afternoon. It was very nice. And… second question, can you demo me your time-skills? I’m fairly interested in those,” Kate asks me almost as playful as Chloe once asked me to _demo_ my superpowers.

“Thanks, the fresh strings were properly stretched along the guitar’s neck. Was it the German’s craft?” I answer her. “Yeah, I suggested it – he bought it –, when I still trusted him. But I believe and trust you more,” she replies rather disquieted. “I’ve got a confession to make,” Kate prepares me. “So?” I’m not that curios, but what could be worse? Mark also had a confession to make. Tuesday – day of tragic confessions. “I used your excerpts from Andre Bazin, remember? It was such a nice script. And linked to other great photographers. I studied them and spilt soda over it… accidentally,” Kate almost cries. I thought, it could be worse. Can’t remember I had studied Bazin’s writings that much. Let’s showcase my time-altering powers.

I clench my fist and think about my goals. My gift, the perceptional power surrounding me. Empathy, love, despair. I move back in time unto the ending of her second to the last sentence. I’ve also changed my position behind her. I hear the quiet humming of the whales, but it’s not as disgusting. Nothing strangles my throat. I did good!

The pulse is over and Kate ends her sentence, “I used your excerpts from Andre Bazin…” I use that moment to jump in and poke her back, “It was such a nice script. And linked to other great photographers. I studied them and spilt soda over it… yup I can imagine you wanted to reverse time, didn’t you?” masterly performance. Kate turns around and notices my sudden disappearance before her very eyes. If somebody could bring me back my old rewind-powers, then I could fix anything else here, too. Kate smiles and bites on her lower lip impatiently. Yeah, I’ve proven my time powers to yet another person. Wasn’t that big of a deal, though. I return the smile but something’s different.

Kate looks behind me. Somebody’s there. So, I turn around and – speaking of devils at Arcadia Hell –, the sacred Siegbert Dongle stands in her doorway watching us talk. He tries to fake a smile, “Hey Max, where’ve you been? I waited for almost an hour,” he talks to both of us. Kate doesn’t understand this. She frowns at him first then at me. What the hell is going on inside of her?

“You’d better go. And, you too Max,” Kate encounters me and looks angrier. “But Kate…” – “Enough Max, I don’t want to see you, either!” she reacts enraged. Nice work! You fucked up Tuesday to the absolute maximum. She slams the door shut and cries. Siegbert and I are standing before her door. Debarred. “What’s up with her today?” he asks facing the door. Very fucking obviously, she assumed that I tried to pinch her _boyfriend_. The German. He’s walking away and shakes his head. Suddenly, he stops and heads back to me. “Can we talk for one moment?” sure we can. After all, I’ll owe him an explanation.

“Sure, you want me to say sorry, right?” I don’t look at him, while talking. “More in private and not in front of her door, perhaps?” he suggests. “Come with me, into my Maximus-Abyss,” I invite him to my room. “Abyss? What’s that?” he asks. “The depths of my mind,” I answer him. “Eh, well… okay,” he utters under his breath.

“You’re happy with the new strings?” he wonders, during entering my room. “I told Kate, ‘thank you’ a minute, ago. So, yes.” I let him know. “About Kate,” the German sits down on my bed, “What’s up with her? Since our trip to the diner, she’s acting weird. I don’t want to make you angry, but you are not very nice to me, either… and the cop, who drove you back here, was mean to me… told me to not touch you ever again. I’m feeling misunderstood,” he takes a while to find all the words he needs. Makes sense, I think. When Kate has found out, that he was waiting for me, she reacted upset. Really makes sense, since I told her to distrust him. This feels so odd, because he’s not mad nor having a mean attitude towards me. I won’t figure out this dude, not ever.

“What has happened to your leg? Doesn’t look nice,” he points at my tattered jeans. Fuck this, I’m sick of these questions. “Nothing to worry about, Dongle,” I accidentally say the imaginary last name at the end. But he doesn’t react to my invention. It would be funny as shit, if his last name really was “Dongle”. He looks sad and a little depressed. He stands up and faces my bookshelves at the wall,

“I’ll take this. I have the feeling, you don’t want to see me. I like you Max, but… I seem wrong to you,” he takes the album by P.O.D. off my bookshelf. Mister Siegbert – the German, leaves my room, without closing the door nor saying goodbye, either. I’m dizzy. Maybe I should rest. Tuesday was an even bigger bitch of a day, than Monday had been. But fuck no, nothing is worse than Jefferson’s defiled claws around my neck. Chloe’s unrequited love burns like fire around my heart.

I gathered so much information today, my head wants to explode. Mark, Chloe, Dana, Rachel, David… they all stick in my brain like glue. Although Tuesday was an asshole, it was quite informative and hence somewhat helpful to me.

The friendship to Chloe is broken and always was. I had killed… murdered it. I made her watch William die. You couldn’t ever forgive me that. Except… I make her believe, that I’m not the Real-Max. But how to convince her? Consider, Monday had to repeat a second time for me to take action and change something. Now, Tuesday must be… normal? I guess, I’ll end up on Wednesday, and Chloe doesn’t give a shit at all. I hope she leaves this town. Whoever said, “You won’t come back to your hometown,” he was right. So, she shall run away and hide forever.

See? See my thoughts spinning and twisting? Remember Chloe wearing an Ouroboros T-shirt, when I made my last decision? That’s how I feel, now. An endless cycle of thoughts, that I won’t ever comprehend if Chloe won’t help me out. That’s the catch for today. The crux of the matter. Chloe distrusts me, thus I couldn’t use her board to gather information along with her. Information about my past. I wanted to write everything down on sheets of paper, pin them at the wall and figure out, what the hell _was_ and _is_ going on here. I wanted to write about the time fragments, I wanted to write all about the burning horizon, I wanted to write what I did to Chloe and her dad… it’s fucking impossible to keep track of those things inside my head, all alone. The sheer amount of bloaty thoughts makes my head ache. Rest Max, you’ll find yourself back in the psychiatry eventually. The Real-Max might likely be a drooling lunatic until then.

 Laptop stolen, friendship broken, a lot of new hurtful truth which I had to endure, a strange student from abroad whom I can’t trust – for no big reason -, Victoria being a cutter, Dana looking like gone twice through hell, my parents on their way to Arcadia Bay, because Sean Prescott offered them to stay at the Prescott Pan Estates, Blackwell not being donated by the Prescotts anymore, since their son had been allegedly murdered by two suspects, although there were no souls present at the murder scene… my brain needs to take a breather… whew… the windmill, the police owned by Sean Prescott… and what’s my cut? Right, the dull idea of believing, there was famine in Arcadia Bay.

All in all, I’m smarter and know a hell of a lot more about this strange dimension. Chloe had an interesting thought concerning particularly this. I seemed to be an altered personality within the wrong course of time. I guess, the letters I wrote to her, taught her about time-traveling. Apparently, she got the point that I’m _not_ the Max Caulfield she anticipated to meet or to shoot. Actually, I think she knows more than that. All things considered, I know everything I need to know. Now my questions to the Real-Max Caulfield follow. How did I do this? Why did I _jinx_ William’s car? Why and how did I compose all those letters?

I know all the facts I need, to understand and subsequently improve my mental condition. Nevertheless, this was a dreadful day in terms of emotions and tremendously sad memories. Among them the letters of despair, the windmill, the pirate ship. Poor Chloe. Today, I occasionally had the feeling in my gut, that I don’t want to stay here, either. This 2013 isn’t my place to be. I escaped a time fragment and should end up somewhere else. Maybe that was Chloe’s intention as I spoke to her at the junkyard.

Okay, thoughts briefly recollected: Info about my past before 2013 – checked. Info about how the past created 2013 – not checked. This is the part, which almost drives me crazy. After all, the Max in the psychiatry will know much better. And… another thing checked: My time travelling ability. I somewhat mastered the main technique. Just don’t stress yourself! That’s that. Phew, I just want to leave this atrocious place. Get back to 2015 and see what I can do. Did I say “back”. I didn’t even mean to turn this into a “Back to the future”-joke, great Scott!

I grab my guitar and play. I’ll relax my remaining braincells with the calming effects of music. What will I play? Just do something with Cmaj7, maybe? Okay fingers, let’s do this. Fingers? Why do you tingle? Striking a chord, my fingers feel as if they burn. It prickles under my skin. What the fuck? My left hand tries to grab and strike a chord, but it feels wrong. The strings wobble and rattle across the neck. The sound hole beeps a high noise. Victoria opens her door and yells something unintelligible at me. But I’ve understood the end of it. “Close your fucking door!” Thanks asshole!

I get up and walk to my door. My shadow dropping on the carped floor. It’s growing bigger and bigger, the tingle around my fingers grows up to my shoulders, my strengths languish around my neck and knees. I don’t hear the hard impact on the floor. I can’t wait to go forward to 2015. There’s one funny thing, after all. I passed out on my way to a door, that I was about to close. Perhaps I’m lying on the floor like superman. Ha, I’m laughing inside my mind, since everything has gone perfectly dark.

My head lies on some table. I raise it. Ouch, my eyes. The fluorescent lamp burns through my eyes and aches inside my temples. Please, turn it off. Urgh, where am I? “Hey you!” my voice shouts from somewhere out of the room. Guess, I made it to 2015. “Yes, and you fucked up like a champ!” Figures… “Hey! Look at me, when I’m speaking to you!” she orders me. Hell no. I’m so bloody tired. “Ditto here, you piece of shit!” okay she wants my attention, here I go. Oh, my fucking God!

“Grr, finally. Yeah, look at me! Don’t you look away! What have you done? You know how much you’ve tortured me in the meantime?” the Real-Max puts a rhetorical question. I don’t know what to say, but I’ve got questions, too. “I thought, you go back and save my life. What did you do? You put me into another sick room and this hospital!” she screams at the end. Hospital, I gotcha. Weren’t you dwelling here all the time? “No, you stupid fuckface! Your actions have put me into this!” she keeps yapping at me. I look around. Doc Jacoby is present. Can he hear us? “No, it’s just babbling or gurgling like a baby to him,” she lets me know. My diary lays next to her on a small table. Within reach. So, I managed to retrieve the diary by deleting the entries. But, shit! Look at her – me…

This disgusting view is indescribable. I’m stuck to an IV and a heartbeat monitor. A tube tacked onto my nostrils and an infusion injected on my left arm. Can’t quite make out the liquid inside the IV bag, but it can’t be good. Looking at her, gives me the creeps. At least, she’s picked up a little bit of weight. She, I, look as I’d normally expect myself to look like. But this is beyond me. Please, Real-Max, you’ve got to answer me so many things. “What? William’s death? Didn’t you find out all the things you wanted to know? Fuck, you know what? I won’t tell you, _what_ you had fucked up, exactly. But let me tell you this: You will repeat Tuesday again. And if you fuck that one up again, you relive Tuesday all over, until I fucking rot to death here!”

What does she mean? I had some sort of vision, when she – I, me – had a grave seizure. “Good! You’re not that dumb as I thought, at first. Lemme say this: Whenever an ambulance is crossing, you should know, you’ve fucked up!” the cynical other Max scorns me. For what? Ambulance? Ah yea, when Mark was driving me back to Blackwell, two ambulance coaches crossed our way. “Oh, your brain is processing at top speed. Good job, maybe you can make out the rest of it!” she teases me. Not in a good or childish way, though.

Listen, I found out what I wanted to know, now, I need your answers to improve… _THIS_! The Real-Max inside the sickbed in front of me seems unimpressed. “Why don’t you just go back, where you had come from?” she frowns at me. I understand her reasons to despise me, but Tuesday was such a helpful day. So much information, so much background stories, so much emotion. I can hella improve 2013 and bend everything straight. “You won’t bend anything, you psycho! It should be you, not I lying in a bed, fed by tubes and monitored 24 – 7. _You_ … you destroyed me and you behave as if you’ve dumped for the first time without mommy’s help! What reality did you even come from? A reality where you’ve sacrificed the Bay to fuck the Bae in her truck? Is that it?” she’s appalled and behaving extremely rude. Now, she made it! I’m annoyed and angry as hell!

I get up from my chair and walk to her. She can’t be fucking serious with this! She asks for a slap in her face. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! Back up man! You know, you’ll cause a chain reaction, when you harm yourself?” she threatens us. I walk to her and grab her neck and clench my other hand. Shut your nasty trap! Dr. Jacoby wrinkles his brow, the other doc looks at him impatiently. The Real-Max cracks a smile, the heartbeat monitor increases. The beeping accelerates. “That’s big of you. Reminds me of losing our innocence in the dark room,” she goes on. I grit my teeth and release her gorge, her heartbeat has reached and passed the 180bpm mark. “Go on with this and you brake the rest of this dimension,” the Real-Max coughs twice. “Damn, a bony hand like that grows and bulks up quite some strength,” she tries to incise me again.

I’d better go back to the table and listen to her. Don’t you ever dare saying something like this again. “I’ll try to. But I couldn’t resist for a moment. I mean, none of us had the balls to _screw_ Chloe, right?” she explains herself and ends her sentence very nastily again. I could just get up and knock her off. Fucking evil little brat. Screwing Chloe… yeah, I don’t even have the time to get her back as a friend.

“You know, since you’ve brought me into this clinic, we can finally use the time to chit chat!” she starts off with an incisive tone. “The more you mess up _my_ past, the longer it’ll take to reunite. You remember? Last time we only bandied words and now, we might have an entire discourse. Just a random question to you: Isn’t it great to think you do good, but then you end up in a fun-house over and over and over?” she goes on with her stupid ramble.

Man, this is getting annoying. I just want to know, _what_ had happened after Chloe’s death. Did I choose to sacrifice her? Did I prevent Kate from jumping? I remember the basis… but nothing else. What happened after all this? My memory only extends to the nightmare occurrence I had. Did I kiss Chloe, kill her, side with her? This alternate 2013 drives me crazy. I can’t remember my own choices any longer.

The Real-Max before me looks inward and muses on something. Honestly, I just want _those_ answers. The what-the-hell-has-happened type of questions. I can’t fiddle about and do random stuff in 2013 when I can’t remember the roots of Real-Max’s being, carried with all their agendas. When I change everything to the better, timelines might merge together and all of our actions will be united. All those Alt-Maxes like me, won’t suffer anymore and… can live their lives. Our life. My life, finally. But currently, this bullshit unfortunately is certified as schizophrenia or psychosis. Now, the Real-Max doesn’t look too sour, she more likely wants to answer me. Please, tell me.

I’m scared, a little. I’m afraid of what has really happened. Please talk… please…, “Enough! I get your point. Just know that _Mark_ is to be distrusted and not Steven. You made quite a scene out of Tuesday, I’ve gotta fucking admit. But I admire your unrelenting attempts to create a better future. It’s the thought that counts, right? You obviously failed big time, dude. You fucked yourself with your own choices. You destroyed Kate and Chloe in a heartbeat. And without further ado, nor telling you the biggest mistake you’ve committed, I’ll tell everything, you had just asked. I get your point, as I’ve mentioned, but I highly doubt it’ll help you. If you mess up one more time, bad things are gonna happen!” she finally reacts pretty decently.

Her heartbeat increases up again to 100bpm and higher. I think, she’ll tell me now. “Aight, everything as plain and simple as possible… whew,” she exhales out loud at the end. She cracks with her head by tilting it far to her right. She begins, “Chloe is dead. I think, this was your burning question after all. Nathan has killed her, David arrested Nath, Jefferson was arrested, too and blah, bli boop. This was the ending of the horrible week at Blackwell. Now, the other stuff: I had no guts to back Kate, Victoria and not even Daniel. They were all disappointed in me. Kate jumped… dead…,” her eyes turn red. Yet, she tries to keep up her talking, “…and she still is. Chloe shot Frank and his dog, although I had the possibility to turn back time, but I was afraid of losing Chloe again. I just wanted them to be out of our way, I distrusted Frank although he was more than a good guy,” the Real-Max’s voice cracks.

“I overdosed the paralyzed Chloe… Victoria was dead, killed by Jefferson… Jefferson ended up dead, because I told David, that Jefferson shot through Chloe’s head. I didn’t know what to make out of my powers,” she cries, her heartbeat switches somewhere between 120 and 160bpm. After sniveling twice, she goes on, “I had no guts for anything. Not even kissing Chloe when I had all the time of the world to do so. I had my rewind-powers but there was some sort of aura around her, protecting her. I just couldn’t do it,” she ends here and takes a breather.

Well, that was… nice. Good to know that Kate is hale and hearty in 2013. But, what else happened after all of this; After that dreadful week? Real-Max looks at me, with her bloodshot eyes and replies, “I thought, I could cope with her death. With her not being there anymore. Watching Joyce’s pain of loss, was the worst thing of all. She invited me daily to her house. Every day I had to walk my way to Cedar Avenue and be there for her,” she pauses here.

Thinking about it, I’m rather concerned about the fact, I’ve never kissed her. I kissed her in the first time fragment. “What _first_ time fragment?” the Real-Max wonders. “You mean, where you’ve fucking killed Chloe and her dad altogether?” apparently, she doesn’t know the place I was originally coming from. Anyway, I think I can do better. And sometimes, I just don’t know what to do with my emotions. Kissing her was nothing… describable, by all means. It only felt right to her and nobody else, I’ve met in my life. The Real-Max’s eyes sparkle inside the light. Okay, I interrupted her train of thought, she should go on with it. So, the week was over and she couldn’t endure Joyce’s grief…

“She gave an old photobook to me. Photos of William, Chloe and me. Plenty opportunity to do it again, right?” she continues with tears on her lower lid. Sniveling again, she concludes, “First, I changed smaller details of our past. It had worked. No tornado, no tempest, no dying animals. I went on and on, and on. And all the sudden… I ended up inside an asylum. But that’s not the whole story. I left notes all over my body, to remind myself to fucking write letters to Chloe. The time gaps became wider and wider. I changed agendas and themes throughout the past within a past. I iterated those processed until the interconnected polaroid images rendered themselves corrupted. I told myself to write letters by leaving notes on my body. I don’t know, if it worked out the way I wanted it to be, but I always ended up inside the fucking asylum. And worst of all, one day the psychiatrist had changed his mind and didn’t answer my questions anymore. I didn’t know if Chloe was alive, where I was, if Rachel was alive, if Kate was alive, if Jefferson was killed or arrested. I had to trust my gut. And seeing you, experiencing this one crucial week, raised some hope. But apparently, it’s yet another goner,” finally some fucking answers. Ah, what a relief.

The Real-Max senses my serenity. She sadly stares to the ground and quietly concludes, “I continued this procedure for the period of two years. Time fragments have emerged and alternative Characters were given birth. Alternative Chloes, Rachels and what have you. This constrained me to write a letter to any given alternative Max. To whom will read about the “red miracle”, knows that she’s not where she’s supposed to be. I just want to get out of here. No more meddling with time, no more fucking with any lives. I’m sick of it,” she ends her story. Finally, I can tell, how she managed to change almost any detail in 2013.

“Well, I felt your attempt to play the guitar right before your arrival here. This is only the beginning. In this IV bag are top notch drugs. They all _handle_ psychosis. I hear voices, all the time. That’s a fact. It tried to play the guitar here, too. Shortly afterwards, the drugs had palsied my fingers, then my feet, then my appetite, and… oh, almost forgot, the first thing it had slowed down, was my ability to think. That’s the reason I was mad at you, since you’ve decided to make ambiguous entries into your diary. Luckily you chose to get rid of that page. At least, I’m now able to decipher the diary even further,” she explains. Decipher… huh, a good point. Why the deciphering? Why an encrypted diary?

“Dr. Jacoby was Nathan Prescott’s shrink. He was paid to take care of him. Sean Prescott wanted Jacoby dead, because Nathan committed suicide. But for some ominous reasons, Sean Pisscott put him in charge of it again to take care of us. Max Caulfield. Somehow, he should find out if we were interconnected with Nathan’s death. I deciphered and encrypted the diary to find my answers over and over, because my memory is fucking busted!” she keeps up the answering. I like it. The way it makes sense, the way I felt my own amnesia. The truth isn’t nice, God forbid, but finally somebody makes sense out of this crap. The Real-Max had amnesia, pain, problems with her motor function. This explains my weird feelings, whenever I experience a vision.

“Vision? I’m swallowing tons of SSRIs and anti-depressants per day, but I’m not suffering from any visions,” she answers my train of thought. Another cryptic thing is the Memorize Max. What does it mean? “Notes on my body, notes in my diary, where letters are flickering, photos with weird descriptions underneath, babbling to myself to prevent myself from forgetting. Truth be told, I don’t know where to go…,” she admits. “Seizures getting more intense, **your** actions won’t help, I don’t know what happened to my parents – and nobody wants to tell me, because I apparently asked those questions a billion fricking times,” whew, I’m a lot smarter. Thank you, Me, for saying all I needed to know.

“The hard thing about this is, that only you are capable of changing things. I can’t do shit. No polaroid images are working, anymore, since you showed up. You are the only person who can make a change. Look at me, though. Look at me and you know how it could end. Trust me, you don’t want to see and feel, what I see and feel,” so here we are. It will take much longer to unite with myself. The heartbeat monitor slows down a tad. I stand up and turn around. Doc Jacoby and another medic are sitting calmly again. Watching us nervously, ready to sedate, any time.

I walk towards the window. This isn’t Portland. The psychiatry is in Portland, but this certainly is the hospital near Arcadia Bay. Pine trees in the foreground, Blackwell to the right, the shore to the left, our windmill in the background. “It’s not _our_ windmill, Max. Here, take this,” she says and holds a polaroid image in her left hand. “This is _our_ solution to all of this. If you don’t know your way back into your own actual reality, do ourselves a big favor,” she continues. I look at the photo. She puts it aside onto the diary on the table to her left. Her eyes turn red. What’s the matter?

I go closer to her and look at the photo. “Don’t touch anything again, not the diary or anything else. Just focus the image and do, what must be done. You might not see anything, but the polaroid isn’t corrupted, yet,” she explains with her hands waving about. “Now, just go,” she orders me to leave. Sure as hell, I can’t see shit on that photo. It’s corrupted in my view. But she asserts, it’s not broken, yet.

This has a striking resemblance to the corrupted image, I’ve focused on Monday. I don’t know, if I can trust her. She can entice me into the next time fragment, to make me disappear. “It’s not a time fragment you fucking nutcase, now go!” she yells at me. Dr. Jacoby and the other doc stand up alarmed. One of them slowly comes closer to Real-Max’s bed. Okay, now or never, let’s repeat this unholy process once again!

Trying to focus the image, I hear a reversed rattling bell echoing through my skull. My head horribly aches. The world surrounding me starts collapsing. My eyes shut, someone takes a picture and the pitched black area flashes up for a second. A soft and cuddly thing caresses my belly. It smells of plush.

“Nice one Ryan. I think, you scared our little girl up with the flash,” my mother talks to dad. Oh my God. I’m a toddler. I look at my tiny hands and my tall parents. What the hell? “Well, she’s rather fascinated by the camera… aren’t you honey?” dad talks to me. Ryan? “Daddy!” my lips only know those words. The rest is deep inside my head. Words and sentences encaged. Dad smiles. He looks at his instant camera and nods. “Maybe she’ll see the world and envision it with this old camera?” he understands my fascination for this ancient camera, which currently lies bleeding on my dorm room’s floor. I can’t believe this. I travelled back to the day, my parents gave me my little teddy.

This is the day, they drove me to the ER, because I swallowed an eye. “Honey, why are you crying?” mommy asks and smiles at me, removing one tiny little tear away from my cheek. “Maybe she’s more than happy and glad to finally have a new friend?” dad chuckles and pats my left shoulder. I just can’t believe that I shrunk to less than three foot. Oh my, it feels damn great hugging my old friend who’s almost as big as I am. Buddy, if you’d only knew, how much trouble I’d gone through. Yeah, I really cry. And my parents mistakenly assume that it’s joy for having my old friend back. His head attached to the rest of his body and his pair of eyes sewed on his face.

“Hey Maxine, maybe you should sleep your first night together with your little friend,” dad suggests. Not a bad idea. The white disguise around us is closing in. This time travel feels like a nightmare. An aura surrounding us, the white disguise might devour me, if I’m not careful enough. “Yes, we’ll come up with a nice-sounding name for your friend, tomorrow,” my mom promises. I’m stunned by the fact, that I went so far back, when my parents were used to call me Maxine.

I can hardly remember this day. And compared to time fragments, they also don’t sense like events of the past. This space feels like the present. I can’t describe it well enough, but I don’t understand Real-Max’s wish. What favor? “Oh look, how happy she is, Ryan…,” mom reacts to my sudden cry. I’m scared as hell, but they likely assume, that it’s joy. Seeing my parents again really makes me happy, but the sad thing is, Real-Max wants me to do us a favor and I don’t know what exactly.

Mom and Dad leave my room. Mom fast comes back and gives me a smooch on my right cheek. Yeesh, your lips have grown bigger mom. “Good night, sweetie!” she bids good night. Of course, it’s night. Like eight o’clock in the evening. Yup, still bright and shiny outside, but a little too dark in my room, since they dropped the louver. Arcadia Bay… sigh, why did we leave? Oh maybe I can… write a letter to my Dad, that he shouldn’t leave to Seattle? Forget it, Max. It would be rather disturbing to receive a well written letter by an almost two-year-old daughter. Well, I managed to write trillions of letters to Chloe, why would I have failed, if I had written a letter to Dad?

I climb out of my crib and… ouch, I was better with this… why do I suddenly cry, I just fell on my right arm and it doesn’t really hurt. Mom comes back and turns the lights on. “Maxi, what are you doing? I know you want to go on adventures with your new friend, but you really must go to sleep!” she carries me back into the crib. Wait a minute! Can I rewind here?

I raise my little hand while mom is carrying me. I rewind time and see myself being put down to the ground again. Mom leaves my room and the door closes by itself. I see my self-ghost’s falling in reverse and climbing back into the crib, whereas I’m still outside. I stop the rewind here.

It worked. Oh my, I’m a toddler with cutthroat powers. Hope, I won’t curse my parents’ life after this time travel shit. I need some light. Dang it! The light switch is too high. Shoot. Okay, Max, grab the little chair and move it… argh! I fell on my face. My motor function is equivalent to a two-year-old, even with my older spirit inside. I wonder, how old I really am here, since I was still sleeping inside a crib. I head to my table with loads of drawings and toys waiting for me to be played with. However, I just want to use the chair. Moving it to the wall, I can use the chair to support myself and to avoid falling on my face, all over again.

Now, scale up that chair without breaking your bones and alarming my parents, and turn that light switch. I can barely reach it. Tock! Lights on! Seeing my old drawings on the table could come in handy. Are there still blank sheets? I really _would_ write my parents a letter. A long story, so to speak. They won’t ever leave Arcadia Bay. I could warn about a psychotic photography teacher and I would always be there for Chloe. But… the… the Real-Max did mean _this_ , right? I think, she’s tried something here, too, or has she? I mean, she couldn’t obviously time travel with polaroid images, because her mental state deteriorates more and more, and since I stole her ability.

Enough time wasted on that, I am here to change things. I grab a crayon and a blank, empty piece of paper. The crayon seems sharpened enough to drop a few lines, maybe an entire letter. Whoa, hands, what are you doing? Dammit! I’ve fallen over again. Get the chair, Max, your balance alarms everyone around. Dad comes in, c’mon, rewind… wait a minute!

“Maxine, how did you…?” he interrupts himself. He’s come in with the instant camera. “Dad, scribe phomethin,” the lisp is real. I wanted to say, ‘Dad I will explain everything to you.’ However, he doesn’t carry me back to the crib. He kneels down and shows the instant camera. I grab it and smile at him. The joy feels overwhelming! Is this how kids feel like? In their innocence of life? Being happy about anything? Thinking about ruling the world with superpowers and destroying evil? I feel myself leaping for joy. I can’t handle it, my old wit subdued me. Incredible, that my childish whims are stronger than my grown-up initial attempt to write a letter.

“Here, you can have it. I saw your great delight for the teddy, but I’ve never seen you astounded by an old-fashioned camera,” Ryan talks in a very complex manner. As though I was grown-up and could understand each of his words. I raise the camera, look through the viewfinder and take a picture of the desk. The flash scares me and I fall to the ground, but dad catches me. Both my hands are holding my very first instant camera tightly. “This isn’t just a knack. You are talented my little doe,” Dad concludes. I always assumed that I inherited dad’s intelligence and mom’s open-hearted benevolence. But dad seems to know of something. He picks the print-out image, wiggles about for a couple of times.

“Doodle, Dad. Scribble your story!” my second attempt to talk plainly. “C’mon kiddo, no more doing mischief,” daddy grabs me under my arm pits and carries me back into the crib. “Mommy and I got you this super-nice bed. You’re too old for this little cage, anyway. You will like it! Love you,” Ryan comes closer and gives me a smacker on my forehead. Jesus, this feels more like heaven. This point in time sure feels like heaven. But knowing that I am inside a polaroid remembrance, makes this an atrocious nightmare. Dad turns the lights off and says good night to me. My fate here was to swallow the teddy’s eye.

Suddenly, dad comes back into my room, talking to himself, “Almost forgot, little Maxine can’t sleep without her magic little music box,” he opens the wardrobe and fetches the music box from the highest shelf. He winds the music box up and puts it on my table. He waves as he walks out of my room and closes the door behind. This music… I can’t remember it. This is… beautiful. Never ever… I know this song! But how did it managed to go back to the past? Einaudi released his songs at the beginning of 2013. This can’t be! How is it possible? Why does my time travel contain music from the presence? It’s just a stupid music box.

“DO IT, MAX!” my voice shouts at me through time! The key on the door… she wants me… to kill myself? Teddy huddling in a corner of my crib. The white disguise is coming closer. I climb out of my crib. I fall again. Without rewinding, I hurry to the table, grab the little stool and push it toward the door. I climb up and turn the key inside the keyhole to latch the door. Someone approaches the door and tries to move the handle, but the door won’t budge. Maybe mother, maybe father. I walk back to my crib. I won’t be able to climb back… I must squeeze teddy through the wooden bars. What am I doing? My small eyes shed little tears which make my vision blurry.

The Real-Max’s asked favor was to kill myself. End her suffer. But I’ll die here, too. My parents came looking at me every ten minutes, as I was asleep. So actually, it’s not my fate to die here. But I locked the door so I can turn my fate, right? Vanessa and Ryan couldn’t ever imagine, what their little daughter was actually doing, that she was possessed and driven by an older soul of herself. I look at my little teddy. This is incredible. What the fuck have I put ourselves into. Good thing you are just plush and can’t answer to all those horrors, that I have gone through. If you had an everlasting heartbeat within your chest, I’d cuddle with you for the rest of my life and I wouldn’t need anything else. But you are just another empty husk. An empty husk just like I am in 2015.

I hug my little teddy. I can’t do this. My parents have showed so much love. So much love…love, Chloe was missing, because William was dead and denied any attempt by her mother or David. I finally understand her wish that my parents shall perish the same cruel way. I totally forgot they always were there for me, watched my every step carefully. Preventing me from pain, damage or anything alike. I forgot their love to me, and now I must end myself? Life is a curse!

“Please, I’m begging you…,” the Real-Max cries. The white disguise comes closer, until it’s only Einaudi’s song, Teddy and I and, girdled by a one-inch wide piece of reality and… void closing us in.  God, I can’t do this. Look at this, Teddy… I hug him tightly… I can hear 2015 coming nearer and nearer. If I’m not doing anything, I’ll change nothing. Go, Max… it won’t hurt! You can end it here.


	14. Devastated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, she understands everything. She found out all she has to know to improve her past. However, before getting back she has to face many painful truths nobody can avoid her to experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Original date of release - November 1st 2017 -
> 
> Well, well, well. I left barely nothing untouched on this weird chapter. Since so much time has passed and I had to earn my money, take care of my friends, hurdles before Christmas, studies of 3D Software and English (duh), I finally made it until Christmas Eve. I wish you a merry Christmas and a wonderful time in 2017's last days.
> 
> After facing many canonic problems in my own (very complex) story, I determined to shift many visions - and other brain racking details - into short stories. I posted another work here labeled with "Burning Horizon - Short Stories" where you may read letters, phone calls, thoughts and little dramatic events stuffed into a series. I'm currently working on three more of those short stories. 
> 
> So much time has passend and yet I can't remember what I've changed except telling you that I literally rewrote almost every dialogue twice and checked the chapter's integrity more than four times.
> 
> Much love and a beautiful Christmastime! <3
> 
> WARNING!  
> THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS EXPLICIT DEPICTIONS OF VIOLENCE!  
> DO NOT READ UNLESS VIOLENCE AGAINST WOMEN DOES NOT DISTURB YOU!

**Chapter 14 – Devastated  
** _(Entirely reedited November 6 th until December 24th)_ ****  
Theme Song: Frames - Encounter

Magic Music Box, why have you stopped? Dad has just wound you up. I don’t know, what to do. The plushy teddy in my arms starts fading. My hands can’t hold him any longer. I hear the Real-Max’s heartbeat exceeding 200bpm. The monitor’s beep echoes through time to me into the past. I can’t put an end to this. I can’t erase myself. I’m too strong right now, I can’t assist my other self at committing suicide via time traveling.

“FAST!” the Real-Max shouts through time. Yet, the aura around me gets somewhat bigger, teddy comes back into my arms. The disguise around me goes away. “You will finish this! Do it!” and I can’t believe it. The Real-Max has trapped me here. Evil brat! She… she is still there and can rewind at will. If she doesn’t like my decisions, she’ll rewind. The key inside the lock rotates back, the stool moves back to the table and Dad comes back into my room, and puts the music box back into the wardrobe. This is the weirdest thing of all. Experiencing a rewind without doing it on my own.

Her heartbeat races way too high. I don’t know, how it can increase on and on. Her rewind seems to affect her heartbeat. She might kill us if she rewinds further and over. “Miss Caulfield, can you hear me?” I hear Dr. Jacoby talking to her. Real-Max has interrupted the rewind, when Ryan wiggled the photo in the air to make the printed image dry faster. I can’t hear 2015 any longer, I’m back in 1997 or eight… please Real-Max, don’t worsen this again. Can she still read and listen to my thoughts? “Everything hunky-dory, Maxine?” Daddy asks me, because all this grief had seeped through time and caused my eyes to shed some tears of fear. God, I hate it, whenever he says hunky-dory.

“Want to go wiph you dad!” I try to say that I want to go with him. “C’mon kiddo, no more doing mischief,” Ryan iterates the exact same sentence, grabs me under my arm pits and carries me back into the crib. “Mommy and I got you this super-nice bed. You’re too old for this little cage, anyway. You will-,” – “I want to be wiph you… forever!” I interrupt his sentence. Man, this lisp is lovely. I miss so much of this. All I see is my forgotten early childhood. If Real-Max gets a heart attack, I shouldn’t swallow the button eye and die too… I’m not ready to end myself.

Ryan seems intrigued. If he’d only known that his little girl is possessed by her older self. I can’t change it, dad, I’m so sorry. God, I’ve missed you so much! What have I done to my parents. I will hug them to death as soon as they show up at Arcadia Bay. “Maxine, you’re looking so… pale…,” Ryan brushes one little burning tear away from my soft cheek with his thumb. “Okay, you come to us for ten more minutes. Mommy will be happy,” he finally carries me to mom. I’m not going to die alone, no matter what evil intentions Real-Max has. Rewinding whereas another alternative personality time travels at the same time. This can’t be good. She should accept my existence, my choices.

The disguise comes a little closer. Regardless of how long I’ll be with my parents, I had my last memory shared with them. And they will surely remember this event, since this is a working polaroid. I hug my daddy tightly, as the white aura narrows. “Ryan, what has happened?” Vanessa joins us in the corridor. I only hear her footsteps coming closer until she arrives out of the white disguise. My heartbeat pounds against dad’s shoulder. He notices this. “My, what’s wrong with you?” he looks down to me. I can’t believe how small I’ve become. I’m smaller than his chest. I’m half of it, at most.

“You think, she’s becoming ill?” mom wants to know. Dad fades – half a ghost. Close your eyes, Max. “NOOO!” the other me cries. A loud echo resounds… it’s dark. I can’t see a thing. The heartbeat rapidly pulses in my ears. “Calm her! Emergency, get ready to resuscitate her! … Her condition declines!” Dr. Jacoby tells someone and calls for help. “Fuck, she killing herself with… nothing!” he talks to himself infuriated. I’m his enigma he won’t solve.

“One, two, three!” a medic screams. A defibrillator beeps loudly. It twinges within my chest. They revive her… me. My heart must’ve stopped. I will die on dad’s shoulder. Surrounded by my parents, while the other part of me is surrounded by strangers and shrinks. I really pity her for this. She doesn’t deserve that fate. Even I don’t deserve to die inside this polaroid memory. “We lose her!” a voice shouts. “God, this can’t happen to us…” another voice responds. “Make us some room here! I said, ‘Make way!’” the other medic aggressively nudges someone away. The flatline… only remember its beep from movies, hospital soaps… but this one has an additional triplet, going off every second. Like an alarm going off.

The sound of a rewind occurs. Mom and dad, they both reappear, light illuminates, some sounds come back. My heartbeat pounds in reverse. Oxygenated and deoxygenated blood flows in reverse. I keep my eyes shut… “I love you… so much,” I manage to say with my grown-up voice in 1997. They can’t answer. A loud screech bellows upon us. Deep bass crashes through time. Something has changed. ???

Real-Max tried to rewind? She was paralyzed and her heart had stopped. Hence the world, I was currently in… became frozen. Don’t open your eyes… keep them shut until it’s over, I kept saying to myself! “Save me!” she said. What? Who? “I’m at your place, too. I’m looking at you from above… like a… a floating soul,” my other self talked to me. “You are on dad’s arms… you cried a little on his shoulder,” she went on. Shut up! I wouldn’t have ever considered killing myself.

“Don’t kill yourself, I managed it on my own somehow…!” she stuttered almost with a joyful tone. “Please, you have to rewind… I’ve corrupted this polaroid image by rewinding outside of it. It’s a time fragment, now. I should have let you… you… are our last rescue. Rewind and you can revive me… I won’t rewind again, I swear,” she cried at the end. I was mistaken. She didn’t sound joyful at all. “Take your time… I’m sorry, okay? Please, don’t be mad at me… for not believing in you. The kind of love you showed to my – our – parents is beyond anything that I’ve anticipated. I misjudged you! It is all my fault,” she accused herself.

I opened my eyes. Oh my God… this time fragment, such a sight to behold. Colorful, shiny, power it was… “It’s because you are inside one for the very first time. The second time you enter a time fragment, there’ll be blood, grief and other uncountable cruel things combined. I’m begging you, please get us out of here! You have to rewind, because I can’t!” she concluded. Sure, I felt the backshift of time, a typical sign for time fragments. My thoughts are all past oriented. Past tense, so to speak.

But, tell me where she was? The Real-Max, I meant. She had mentioned observing me from above. Where? “You can’t see me, right, but I see you and teddy… and… how much I do miss him,” she said and all of a sudden, both his button eye balls moved a little. An invisible imprint of a hand pushed into the plush. I startled and fell to the ground. My motor function worked like my grown-up, albeit I was still in my younger body.

“Sorry, forgot how he felt like,” she apologized for touching teddy without mentioning it. Hey, I had reclaimed my _normal_ adult abilities. Did that mean, I could be able to write? Write a letter to my parents? C’mon Teddy and Other-Max, we had to save everything. “Are you totally out of your mind? This polaroid memory has turned into a corrupted remnant. Anything you do, won’t help us.” she tried to reason with me. However, she was not capable of twisting time any longer, since she died in reality, right? Then, let’s grab a crayon and write them a story, all time fragment convictions aside.

“You’re wasting your time, this is a time fragment and nothing will change our fate. I destroyed this memory together with me,” she tried restraining me from writing. All I sensed of her was despair and a broken heart. Nothing I considered to be death or anything alike.

We didn’t need to hurry. Everything was frozen. Write Max, and ignore the ghost floating around you! “Well, I could remove the crayons or doodle on the sheets to make it impossible for you to write something, but I’ll leave you alone. Do what you want, but please, rewind as far as you can – when you’re ready –, so that I’ll be alive and you can escape this fragment, okay?” she begged me.

Sure, I’d have an axe to grind with you, once I had been back in 2015. “Whatever you want, your actions have proved that you do the best you can,” what a nice blessing she had turned into. What were they used to say? Beyond death, there’s no suspension, no tension, no distress, but remorse. Yeah, that applied to the ghost flying around me.

“I’ll look what you write. Eager to know, how you will use your words,” she admitted. Easy! I couldn’t concentrate when you kept up talking like that. “Try it with soliloquizes. They should remove the backshift within a fragment,” she helped me. I talked to her, “So, shalt I ink them another letter of despair to thwart their plans. Moving to Seattle. Thou and I, shalt we collaborate hereafter?” man, that archaic mannerism was the worst. Ever seen a little girl at the age - at max - of two, talking like that? Possessed by two souls? “Stop talking bullshit and write,” the Real-Max’s soul qoth to us.

Then I wrote my parents the letter. Gosh, what had happened to my grammar? Watch out, what you’ll compose. No backshift, write your wishes and desires and try to scare them. They should regret any thought to move away from Arcadia Bay. The music box was wound up again. What? “Oh, she works although time’s frozen. How convenient…,” the Real-Max said and dropped the music box. Einaudi’s song played again. Great fuel for my letter to them.

Done! “Lemme see, lemme see!” Real-Max obviously had joined me. Invisible hands lift the paper letter. “Great, this…,” she paused there to think, “… this might… _work_?” she didn’t know what to think. “Okay, Real-Max. I was going to rewind… I meant… I will rewind, now, and revive you with that. You are not to rewind and everything will turn out right, you understand?” I was talking directly to the last position her voice echoed from. “Thank you,” she just said from that very empty spot. I hoped my words sufficed. I grabbed the little letter and was about to rewind. I hoped it would work. “Smart…,” the Real-Max talked to herself, maybe to us. Let’s go!

I raised my tiny hand. My body motor function would return to a toddler’s state, in a heartbeat, my diction and all the other elements, too. I rewind as far, as I could. The backshift is over, but I go further and further. Back to the flash from my father’s camera. The flash occurs, the start point of the fragment has been reached.

Still holding the letter in my hand, reality turns back. “It fucking **worked**!” the Real-Max shouts via time. The heartbeat monitor is also audible during her shout. Resurrection accomplished. I can’t believe that I’m inside a fragment of time, however managed to reverse the past feeling of it. Whatever, it’s a fresh time fragment. Maybe it would’ve been worse, if I had tried to go here a second time, which I’m not planning at all. Hell no!

“Nice one Ryan. I think, you scared…,” mom tries to talk to dad, but stops in a heartbeat. “What… Maxine, your nose, Ryan, I can’t see blood,” she holds my left shoulder. I remember her having problems seeing blood. She looks away to avoid throwing up. Me, I’m losing balance, concurrently the wet flow of blood running down to my upper lip tickles my skin. Warm blood under my nose, brushing my lips, touching my chin at the end… “Read my… phtory,” I’ve managed to say while losing consciousness. Guess, I’ll leave that fragment faster than anticipated. I pass out. A feeling that I’m became much used to.

\--------

Passing the next checkpoint, the rattling of a bell smarts in both my temples. A disgusting screech. I despise those moments, although I can’t avoid them.

\--------

I’m awake. My lashes block the vision. Rubbing through my eyes with my bony thin fingers, I remove the blur and eye the Real-Max back inside her bed. Silent, calm, heartbeat calm, no distress, no agony, just wet cheeks which both glint in the bright light – alive. I turn around and spot Jacoby with another nurse. Both observing the situation. The nurse takes some notes. Doc Jacoby talks to him quietly, “Sudden raptures while sleeping…” and looks to the nurse. “Add, ‘Sudden raptures during asleep!’ …please? For crying out loud, do you listen?” he reacts peevishly, beats with his fist on the table. The clipboard almost slips out of the nurse’s hands. Nervously he grabs the pen again and follows the doc’s orders and scurries the pen all over the lined sheet.

Back to the normal world, right? “Right,” the Real-Max chuckles. “And write that down, too, capiche?” Jacoby adds while clenching his fist in fury. An old-school asshole, he is. “Shut up,” she chuckles wearily again, barely manages to pronounce the last word. Exhausted and… I got no words to describe her messed-up condition.

I raise my tunic until I see my belly. The scar is gone. The real Max smiles even more. Tears of joy. This time, I believe her. She’s delighted, composed, appeased like I would’ve never expected her to be. I reversed her broken heart into something worth living. She laughs and removes her remaining tears. Finally, she looks out of the window and enjoys the view.

“The moment, I was flying around and not feeling my body, I wished having arms. I wanted to see them and hug you, mom and dad all at the same time,” she looks me in the eyes. “Caulfield starts babbling with an entity,” Jacoby dictates his nonsense to the poor nurse. “C’mere, we are awesome!” Real-Max raises her left hand. Her right is strapped to a metal bracket at the bed. She even tries to lift that hand, but the strap is, of course, sturdier. Well, that’s a change of heart, I’ve gotta admit. I walk toward her bed and hug… me. “Embraces her-self…” – “God, can you shut up, please?” Real-Max shouts to him.

“What was that, Miss Caulfield?” Doc Jacoby’s trashy chair squeaks. I have to say, never in my life, I ever had mused about seeing myself with my own eyes **and** embracing myself… a twin. I don’t mean seeing oneself in a mirror – I mean, literally in the flesh. It’s the craziest thing I’ve reached so far. But, I’m nervous that worse things might happen to her – us. “Okay, our round’s finished. Clip those notes to the clipboard and follow me to the next patient… woe you lose ‘em again!” Doc Jacoby puts the chair to the table and approaches the only Max he can see. “Your visitor will come in… just about two hours. If you keep up the… sensible behavior, we might loosen the right strap,” he promises… asshole! “Thank you,” Real-Max looks up to him. “All the best for your safety, Miss Caulfield.” and he leaves. Asshole!

* * *

 

Well, fuck. I made a wide jump again. What happened? Definitely, this is just another bloody vision. Come on, Max, open your eyes. What was the last thing, you’ve seen? Embracing myself with my eyes sealed. Great, now what? I’m hearing my surroundings. Still, sounds like a hospital to me. The blur is back again. Might take a while to wear off. I’m back inside the psychiatry. Shit I’m confused. Where is the other Max – my counterpart I was embracing?

Is this a foreshadowing of some sorts or a jump into the past? God, what has my life turned into? All I do is ask myself questions. Well, positive aspects about this first. I can clearly see my diary on the table over there. There is no heartbeat monitor standing next to my sickbed. Welcome back to Portland, I’d say. More like, “This is the place you should rather be, dumbass!” The door’s still opened. Okay, even my limbs aren’t strapped to the bed, which is a relief.

My body looks okay, too. Not the worst vision, so far. Mostly, visions take me somewhere shortly in the future or in the past to reveal someone’s thoughts or a series of actions that might occur. Although I wasn’t able to change anything meaningful in 2013, up to this point. I’ll leave my bed. Wow… my legs slipped through the duvet. I am still the ghost, albeit this is a vision. Looking back to the place, where I’ve been lying the past half-minute, there’s no Max. Just a ghostly outline hiding beneath the blanket. Where is Michael, where are those dozens of people, running around the hallway.

“Intensive care – psychiatric ward, you’re talking to Dr. Jacoby… hello Mister Prescott,” a familiar voice echoes from somewhere out of the hallway. “She’s… she’s been better, sir,” Dr. Jacoby concludes, though I can’t hear Mister Prescott. I slowly walk outside my sickroom. At the same time, I notice that I might still be a ghost and invisible to others. Huh, strange. It’s empty in this psychiatry. The only remaining soul is Jacoby on his mobile. That’s why I couldn’t hear his interlocutor at all.

“Yeah, I hear you. Back to Arcadia Bay? Really? No, sir, I can’t let this happen. She’s in good hands here…” the voice on his mobile interrupts him at the end. All I hear, is the crackle of this voice pushed against Jacoby’s ear.

“Listen… I can’t… Mister Prescott,” he tries to explain by interrupting Mister Prescott back. “This is beyond anything you understand. I apologize for saying this, but you have no clue, what medicine she has to take. If you want to find out about her relation to your deceased son, I…,” and obviously Mister Prescott interrupts him there again.

Relation to Nathan? What could’ve been? I’m bullied at Blackwell and the only person standing right beside me is Kate. Maybe Dana and Daniel, too, but I fobbed them off. Could be that they’ve turned their backs on me. So, what exactly does Dr. Jacoby mean?

“… as I wanted to tell you… yeah, if I can’t observe her condition, and you push incoherent various medicine into her psyche, she might be less useless than she is right now… but she’s not ready for a containment area by this week, do you even understand the extent of this?” he explains and leans against the wall. He pushes his left hand into his face and exhales out loud through the small gaps between his fingers.

Containment? What the hell are the Prescotts planning with me? I see, how Dr. Jacoby struggles against Mister Prescott’s requests. It’s pointless. Step one has had already been made. I’m in Arcadia Bay’s hospital. Not the right place to stay. He looks nervous as he walks to and fro. Pacing forward and backward thrumming on his lips, he’s grappling with his own conflicts while listening to Prescott’s bullshit ramblings.

For the very first time I pity him. Somehow, I can feel the growth of despair in his mind. I believe him, that he just wants to help me. My relation to Nathan… I hated him. Even in my diary I mentioned my fright for his presence plus my hatred against Victoria. So, for exactly what answer is he pressing? “Listen, I know this sounds ghastly and whacky, but this girl is more than a mastermind and murderer of your son… she’s more than that. I’m afraid, she knows more than all of us together. Two years… I’ve been trying for two years to get answers and I might be this close…,” Mister Prescott on the other end shouts.

Jacoby looks pained all over his face. I can imagine all the problems, that emerged by dealing with Nathan’s problems. “I understand. Can you arrange it? I’d die to help this poor girl… okay I collect my files and meet you in Arcadia Bay. Thank you, Mister Prescott,” he hangs up at the end. “Asshole!” he shouts after putting his cellphone in his white robe’s giant pocket. I guess, he could’ve shouted a lot more, since nobody will hear.

He turns around and heads somewhere. I must follow him. No matter how long I’m stuck inside this vision, I should use my abilities to find out more about this. And once I know the location of my medical file and have access to it, I should know, what they scrutinized and already found out about me. Jacoby enters the reception and takes another door behind the counter. Wonderful… I’m a ghost inside an already cleansed asylum with the only remaining soul – Jacoby.

Ah, so there it is. Jacoby’s holy lair of sick files. Assumedly collected over decades of research and treatment. He fetches my files. Good, now I can rewind and take them away. I raise my hand to feel… nothing. Stupid… fuck! It’s not working. Note: Time fragments, 2013 and 2015 – time travel works somehow. On the other hand, visions are things that want to fuck with me. Jacoby takes all the files he can find and throws them into his big brown briefcase.

Damn… what can I do? Can I nudge him away?  I push my hand against his shoulder an see it slipping through his body. Cool… normally I’d take a picture, but this… dammit. Jacoby leaves his office and doesn’t close the door behind. He darts out of the asylum. I hear him stumbling and shouting, “Excuse me!” apparently, he’s seeing the people who’d normally stand there. Nurses, patients and such.

Fucking fantastic, I’m inside his big fucking office without the option to rewind time and or find out anything about me. Well, since I’m here, I should at least check out the rest of his office, as long as this vision abides. Opening a drawer, I find a couple of handheld dictating machines with their correlating tapes arbitrarily spread inside the wooden drawer.

2008 – Troy Parker  
2014 – Michael DaCosta  
2001 – Mark Tillerson  
2013 – Nathan Prescott

Oh my God, what the hell am I finding here?

12/11/ 2008 – Nathan Prescott  
2009 – Nathan Prescott  
2010 – Nathan Prescott  
2010_2 – Nathan Prescott  
2011 – Nathan Prescott  
2011_2 – Nathan Prescott  
2011_3 – Nathan Prescott  
2011_4 – Nathan Prescott

This goes on and on… oh there is a tape about me.

2013_corr. – Maxine Caulfield

Shit. Marked with a red exclamation point.

Can I still listen to it? Can I even touch objects? I wasn’t able to move my blanket nor nudge Doctor Jacoby. Yes, it works. I insert the tape into the dictating machine and listen.

“-------------Cau------reco-------------A.” Dammit it’s more than broken. Maybe I can forward a bit. This thing is ancient, it almost reminds me of Chloe’s old-school cassette player. I hit sesume,

“-----------------------a-----------------------------out,” fuck, it’s pointless. I see something hiding inside the drawer.

2013_17b – Nathan Prescott

The last tape that had been recorded. I mean… if they are sure about an interconnection between Nathan Prescott and Maxine Caulfield, why not checking the last file, that I can find within my own vision.

“September 15th… Recording 17 – b. Nathan Prescott. Tape ‘a’ broke while recording because battery died,” Jacoby clears his throat, “Nathan… haven’t seen you this glad and… happy in years. Please, tell me your story,” he almost sounds like a father when talking to him. Could it be that Jacoby is a relative? Don’t think about that right now, Max. The tape briefly stops and starts again. I hear Nathan sniveling, “Okay, those definitely are tears for joy. Now, I’m very curios, haha. What has happened?” I can imagine a smile on Doc Jacoby’s face. Damn I’m nearly at a point, where I’m sympathizing with him – them.

“I met someone. Someone special,” Nathan answers without a straight voice. Every word sounds rough, his vocal chords are sore. The tape player interrupts and starts again. “Okay, Nathan… you seem flustered. Take all the time you need to describe your thoughts,” Jacoby again tries to reassure him. The tape stops and starts when Nathan begins his answer, “She found my weak spot in a heartbeat. By just… looking at me, she was able to… oh God,” Nathan cries and the tape recorder stops. It resumes after his fit of weeping.

“Nathan, I’d suggest we get outside for a walk and you… tell me everything, will you?” a chair squeaks. The tape doesn’t stop, though. Nathan snivels again. Oh gee, I can’t imagine how much Doctor Jacoby was obliged to struggle with Nathan’s awesome demons. I literally mean _awesome_ the way it’s supposed to be used. Gosh, this is over five years of tape recordings inside this drawer. Over five years of treatment and **bang** , Nathan cleaves his brain. Unlike other visions, this one kind of teaches me about his sufferings. The tape goes on, a high white noise crackles out of the dictating machine,

“I’m in love with her – I love her. The way she looks right through me is nothing compared to you Lawrence,” Nathan answers Doctor Jacoby. “What do you mean, Nathan? You found a nice girl at your academy?” he kindly asks him. Nathan struggles and fights against something. I hear his grumble and moans. The tape stops and resumes somewhat later, “I remember another girl that went missing. But she’s new, different, smart, wise… I don’t want to lose her too,” Nathan answers. I hear clothes brushing over skin and rubbing over the seats. “She gave me a birthday present… because… it was my birthday. She apologized for the belated happy birthday. Haven’t you forgotten about my birthday Lawrence?” Nathan is upset about it. “She healed so much in just a few days, which you can’t. She took me away from… all this!” he shouts and apparently points around the room in which they’re sitting.

“You mean your medicine? I can’t risk yet another drug-holiday. I’m begging you to please continue the therapy,” I can hear a clapping of hands. The tape stops and ends here. Lawrence Jacoby, huh. Guess I heard that name somewhere else before…

Someone enters the office. “Max?” Michael comes in and… my God I notice how creepy his hefty body can look in a pitched black office. He turns the light switch while I’m saying, “Hi,” back to him. “Strange. Thought I’ve felt her presence… whatever,” he talks to himself and approaches the opened drawer, in front of which I’m currently standing and holding the little dictating gadget.

He doesn’t recognize me – the ghost –, who’s obviously standing right next to him. He searches something inside the drawer and quickly looks back as he finds it. He sneaks to the door and peeks outside. After a few little glances to the left and right, he closes the door and scurries back to the drawer and grabs the tape with his name glued on it. He hides it in his trousers’ pocket. Okay, that came unexpected, especially because I wasn’t regarding him as a person who has something to hide.

He shuts the drawer and bolts back to the door. While leaving, he turns the light switch. But it became darker than before. I guess this vision is over. This weird and confusing vision.

* * *

 

It’s darker than closed eyes at midnight, hiding under the blanket. An indication that I’ll go back to the Real-Max again somewhere in 2015. Maybe the first time, I’m glad to go back to that nasty brat. After all, she had a change of heart… leap of faith. “You’re back? Hell, thought you’d never wake up again,” my voice speaks into my right ear. Where exactly am I? “You hugged me and fell asleep on me,” she answers. Perspective, colors, it all returns. This vision was creepy. Visions altogether will occur a lot more often. And they’ll expand and widen in the future. “Shit, speaking of which… I had a vision, too, but no time has passed here in this presence. But _you_ were asleep for almost an hour. Luckily, they detached me from the strap around my right wrist,” Real-Max talks a mile a minute. Cut me a break, please.

“No, we must talk as long as we can!” the Real-Max nudges me off her bed. Oh man, what now? “Listen, Dr. Jacoby had talked to me and after he left – **boom** , I had a vision, all of a sudden. After waking up from the vision, he was still standing right in front of me as if no time had passed. He was just about to leave the room. I had to pretend… pretend that my vision wasn’t happening. But, _you_ took your time…,” she explains herself. Well, nice and… so, what happened in your vision?

“I was floating around like a ghost. Remember? Like when I had entered our previously generated fragment. An invisible spirit with no human attributes,” she takes a breather there. Man, I want to know what she’s about to tell me. “I was in Chloe’s room. She was piss drunk. More than ten bottles of emptied beer lay on the bottom. Her arm draping over the brink of her bed. I thought about her. I thought about her name, how much I missed her… didn’t say anything, but she heard… or maybe sensed my inner thoughts…,” she shakes a little, no she’s shivering. The window is still opened. Cold winds are pushing inside. I head to the window and close… I’m invisible and can’t touch it. My hand moves through the window frame.

The Real-Max doesn’t comment this embarrassing event. She goes on instead, “She shouted, I should fuck off. I said nothing, but my thoughts have reached her head in some way. She took the gun out and shot two times at my direction although I wasn’t really there.” What is this going to be? How can she assure that she’d never had a vision and now – all the sudden – she experienced one? Blatantly lying.

“Listen, I didn’t come up with this crap. Chloe threatened me, that I had had to leave her alone or she would use the last bullet for herself. At the same time, I saw a cop car leaving the street with _you_ sitting inside. The moment I realized that I was in your reality… she shot herself,” that’s interesting and disturbing all at once. Luckily, her vision was something out of the past and can’t be changed.

“I don’t know, how much time we have left, but you must get out of here. You are endangered,” she tries to help me. “Once we are reunited, you will suffer from severe psychosis and many other mental illnesses. You will hear voices and other painful stuff. Listen, you must get back to Portland. Arcadia Bay isn’t safe. Once you’ve successfully completed Tuesday and you return to the asylum on Wednesday, you must get rid of all the drugs I’ve deposited behind the loose tile in your sickroom,” she almost beats me to death with new info. Whoa, hold up! My brain tries to adjust itself back to 2015. Later I must do the same for 2013. “It will take forever until you are back in 2013…” she says, but something cuts our bond.

\--------

The chime of a bell rattles. My head pounds due to all the vision-blacking-out-bullshit.

\--------

Damn, she had a plan. Now I’m back inside her body. Now what? I’m shivering, I’m cold, my feet are still strapped at the foot of the bed. Shit, how will I manage to get back to the psychiatry? Wait? I get it? She really had a great plan, however, she had no time to explain thoroughly. She realized how she ended up in this hospital.

It’s because I did something bad in 2013 and she felt it here in 2015. After that she had a seizure, which caused her to change the location. Normally I am the person, who experiences visions, but now there are two of us. Maybe we are linked together because of our mutual time-travel-fragment-showdown.

 _you have totally gone out of your mind_  
stop talking more and more bullshit  
you will make this even worse  
you will murder them all

What the fuck? No! This is horrible. That’s my own voice inside of me. Crap. I grab the pen next to my diary. I write onto my body: loose tile! Once I’m back in 2013, the normal Real-Max should know what to do with that note. Real-Max assumedly wanted to describe the way 2015 works, when I was making my choices, two years in the past. She knows the reason why I’ll repeat Tuesday another time.

 Chloe drank enough to have the courage to pull the trigger. But, Real-Max never actually was there, right? So, it basically had never happened and she’s fine, after all. And, oh shit, I forgot to ask her about the incident between Nathan and I. God, there’s too much to keep track of. Unfortunately, I won’t find out devoid of the social web, because I was robbed my laptop. I have to ask someone, once I’m back.

 _see?_  
you’ve totally lost track of it  
end it here  
here isn’t your place  
you should pull the trigger instead

Holy shit! I can’t imagine the pain my other me had to experience. At the very least, I vaguely knew the Real-Max vision’s timing, date and location. My vision however was beyond anything. Arcadia Bay is my rival. I won’t stay here. If the Prescott family is interested in me and knows about my medical file, I’m fucked! This is hell!

I look around. Nothing here to cut myself out of this sickbed. My heartbeat looks normal. Whew, something acceptable for once. I hear steps coming closer to my room. I stop moving, since my door is widely opened. Man, I can’t do anything. The steps have stopped before my door. A shadow drops into my room. Don’t keep me in suspense here! Can’t move, this way or another.

“Is that room 17?” a dark voice with a familiar dialect says. He comes from up north. A voice further away answers his question, “Yes, we’re reprinting the slate’s descriptions. You may go in.” Well, I totally forgot about the Kraut in hell. Almost forgot about the German.

2015 and still doing mischief around Arcadia Bay. He smiles, opens his arms and offers a hug with it. I’m scared shitless. I can hear my own heartthrob increasing within seconds. Alfred Der Grosse Dongleman, he realizes the sudden change of my heartbeat.

 **Siegbert** … virtually completely forgot your imaginary name. “Uhm, howdy Max. Ain’t you happy seeing me again?” he gleams with pleasure. I notice slight disappointment on his face for a second, but he returned to kindness fast. Truth be told, his English has changed a lot. I assumed it was the dialect from up somewhere around Seattle… if there’s any.

“Well, I’m here now. You insisted I should come down around here and visit you. So, here I am,” fairly smooth and confident. No hiccup, no stutter, no searching for words. Good job. At least he’s making progress. Not like me. “Don’t talk much anymore, huh? I’ve been warned about your… condition,” he shrugs and takes a seat on the chair, Dr. Jacoby was sitting on an hour ago. He’s put his little bag in the corner of the room. No glasses on his face, as always.

 _distrust_  
disbelief  
disoriented  
disintegration  
-no reason to trust

Great, so there he is. The German whom I had distrusted all along and today he’s coming back to me, because I’ve insisted. “Oh, what’s this?” he raises a little pouch with small tools inside. “Lemme see!” I want to see the little bag. He gets up and hands me the pouch. Jackpot! Jacoby forgot this on the chair. There’s the key to the straps’ locks.

“I don’t know if that’s such a good idea,” he restrains me from getting out of this bed. I hide the pouch under my blanket and start talking. The clock on the wall shows 12pm. Plenty time to find out some more things, for instance the incident with Nathan, and what I did at the vortex club party. Real-Max has vanished unfortunately. I know about 95 percent of everything I wanted to know.

“What’s wrong Max? Why are you so pissed off at me, right now?” Siegbert reacts fairly disappointed. He stands next to his bag. Is he about to leave? “Stay, I want to find out a few things,” I raise my hand as though I wanted to grab him. He smiles and takes a seat next to my bed. Nervously waving about with his hands, he tries to say something, “No hugs?” but still smiling. Should I, or shouldn’t I? Didn’t Real-Max mention him beforehand? “I’m not in the mood, right now, later,” so I answer. Siegbert shrugs and mumbles an almost inaudible okay. He has a new scar in his face drawn above his upper lip. No time to ask him about that.

“Why are you here?” I’ll do this the pragmatic way. He looks confused already, but after some breaths, he begins “Remember the great weeks we had? Laughing all the time? The bird?” he shines with happiness. He touches my left arm. Thin cold fingers on my skin. Holy, it’s freezing, I pull it away and rub my arm.

Siegbert looks away, out of the window. He goes there and views outside. “I’m here, because we are supposed to be friends,” he says sadly. A bluetit lands and perches at the window. The German startles and immediately points at the bird, “Remember…? That little bird?” and then looks at me. It’s the same bluetit I had saved in the Prices’ house, in whatever reality. Alfred Giantpecker knows it?

 _he’s lying_  
he tricks you  
he won’t trust you  
he’s no good for you

“Shut up!” – “Excuse me?” the German asks disappointed. He stares to the ground, walks to the door and grabs his bag. The bird flutters against the pane. “I came down… all the way from Seatlle to be treated like this?” he asks me while putting his bag up on his right shoulder. The voices in my head are still echoing. “What’s your name?” I repeat the same question after two years. Two years that have passed by blacking out once.

He sighs, walks to me and draws his finger to my arm he was touching. “I was told that your memory had been destroyed, for the most part, but maybe you should read your own notes first, before asking. I’m leaving…,” he pauses here. During the bird’s relentless flutters against the window, I’m inspecting my notes at the arm. It reads, “Getaway with Steven”.

 _mark is to be distrusted not steven_  
mark snubbed him at the parking  
mark had followed you  
how ironic

“Please, be quiet!” I talk to my head and massage my right temple. “I should give you a present from Mrs. Price, because I was at the Two Whales Diner, today for lunch,” he points at his bag. “Joyce? Joyce Price?” Chloe’s mother talked to him and entrusted him to give me a present? “She said, she was in love with a German when she was our age, because she recognized the foreign language as I was phoning my parents. The ticket to our conversation,” he describes his way to Arcadia Bay and to talk to Joyce.

“A present? I’m begging you…” he interrupts me here, “No, you are rude, unpolite and not a friend right now. I came all the way just to be ignored and insulted. I forgot how much I hated Arcadia Bay, especially after Joyce’s stories,” he denies my wish to have a look on the present. Apparently, it’s the same present dedicated to me, which Joyce was talking about on Tuesday evening. Back when I broke up the friendship with Chloe.

Do you ever learn Max? You envision the wrong enemy. And he’s almost leaving. You need him, to get out of Arcadia Bay. This place is cursed. And I think that staying here, will cause to bring me into the next facility: Testing laboratories or whatever Dr. Jacoby was discussing with Mister Prescott on the phone. My choices are on a different tier. Real-Max seemed mad at me for distrusting Steven Dongle. Damn, I’m the worst. I must revert my decisions.

 _proud you didn’t kill him the same?_  
what about your parents?  
or what about kate?  
and ~~chloe~~?

Those thoughts are giving me the creeps. I need to rewind. Steven is a sensible person. I shouldn’t treat him like vermin. After all I need him more than ever. Even Joyce confided in him. Time to rewind, his good nature won’t… don’t rewind, Max! Don’t do it, yet…

“I’m **sorry**! I remember everything, I understand everything!” he turns around while I’m shouting this at him. A nurse peeks inside, “Everything fine, here?” with a friendly tone and a smile on his face. “Sure, we’re wallowing in bad memories, nothing to worry about,” Steven handles the situation. The nurse nods at him smiling and leaves. “Close the door, please,” I tell him.

“I’m not allowed to, I am not to close any sickroom doors… I- I was told,” he shrugs and bites on his lower lip while twisting his mouth. But he comes to me and keeps the derp look on his face. Deliberately, he wants to make me laugh. What a dumb look, can’t help but smile a little. “I have a job for you to do,” I start, “you have to trust me.”

He smiles a little. “I feel so humbled, thou art… eh… sure what’s on your mind?” he offers help with a laughter. I’ve just noticed how small his eyes are. Brown, like his hair. The red streaks are gone. No more dyed hair. Instead there is a necklace hiding under his shirt and there are some bracelets on his left arm. One of them shows, “Aurice”. What’s that? Normally I’d be nosy and snoop around, but I have to stop asking myself even more questions. Let’s confide in the not-anymore-self-styled Mister Dongle. Here goes nothing,

“I have to tell you something, something important. I’m… _not_ supposed to be here. I’m at the wrong place, but the time is correct. I need your help to get out of here,” I start off, “I can alter time. No kidding!” He looks confused and replies, “What you mean?” I will convince him to escape this hospital with no cruel consequences.

“Give me your bracelet, please,” I open my hand and wait for him to put it in. I can see the big question mark on his face, but he doesn’t refuse. Little square-shaped dices with seared letters. “Do I know, who or what this is? Aurice?” I ask as he drops the bracelet onto my palm. I close my hand. The little ribbonlike straps – to tighten the bracelet – drape on my knuckle.

  _thaw your heart before breaking another’s_  
_it’s cold inside_  
he won’t play along  
don’t treat him well  
you’ve squandered your chance  
stay here

“Argh!” I cover my face with both my hands. He tries to calm me by holding my shoulders. I fob him off and thank him briefly for another try to comfort me. After breathing once, he answers, “Aury… Aurice… she’s my girlfriend.” and pronounces the word differently than I have. The searing pain on the right side of my skull virtually breaches through my head. “Is she faithful our jealous, as you’re visiting me?” I continue asking while trying to fight against the pain. “She admires the help which I’m offering to you. And, yes you know her… very well,” he makes this very easy. I’m grateful.

I raise my right hand and rewind until the beginning of his laughter. I’m so sorry, that I’ll also contaminate you with my despicable gift.

“Where is your bracelet?” I ask to shock him. He looks at his left arm. “Uhm, what? Seriously, how did you know about it? Yesterday I was given that bracelet, and… now it’s gone?” he walks to his bag and inspects the pockets. “Is it this one?” I raise the bracelet high in the air, so that he can see. The ribbons dangling in the air, the dice letters inside my little palm rattle. Before he makes his first step towards me, I’ll continue with my next question and hide the bracelet behind my back, “Bring me the present and you’ll regain your gift,” as I’ve said before, here goes nothing. He’ll never have a change of heart that fast. Never… I won’t mind…

Oh my, he really picks up the box shaped present. Gift-boxed and dusty. He paces to the foot of my sickbed and carefully places the present next to my feet. “Thank you, see you back a minute, ago,” I say while starting to rewind another time,

I rewind back to the stamp of time, whence he was getting up from his chair to search for his – actual stolen – bracelet.

“Where the heck is the present?” all the fuss messes his language up. Can almost dig his German accent. He realized the missing present inside his rucksack. “Come here,” I tell him while pointing at the white plastic chair, he was sitting on. He sees the present at the foot of the bed, says nothing however. He sits down, I raise my arm, with his girlfriend’s bracelet in my left hand. I draw all fingers away until it reveals the bracelet.

“I don’t know your girlfriend, but I should. Especially because she’s not jealous or anything. She backs you and admires the help you offer to others. Thanks for coming down from Seattle to see me. I need your help more than ever!” I say while dropping the bracelet on his hands. He keeps staring at it.

I grab the pouch, which was hiding beneath my blanket. Time to get moving. “I think, you’re not ready for the present,” he answers during my attempts to unlock the shackles. Damn, those things left reddish marks around my ankles. I realize the pain while trying to remove those bloody fetters. Steven gets up, wraps the bracelet around his wrist and ties it up. He utters a loud sigh.

Done! They’re unlocked, what about the tubes on my body? “Watch it, Max! Are you going nuts?” he whispers and walks forwards and backwards inside the room. “You don’t want to escape this hospital. They moved you here to Arcadia Bay’s hospital, because you had a seizure. I can’t assist you, no matter how much… magic you perform,” he hesitates. “I will go anyway. No matter whether you want to help or not. I must leave Arcadia Bay, or else I’m dead, by tomorrow. So, you gonna help me or not?” I point at the tube that goes right into my left arm. He quickly walks towards me.

“Max, I don’t like this… I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” he looks around and darts to the door to look outside. “Why did you show me this?” he subsequently asks, while heading back to my bed. I try to remove the cannula injected into my arm. “You want me to repeat this over and over? Foreshadowing your every word, just like a déjà-vu? I’m not rewinding time for your entertainment,” some blood leaves my arm, during my attempts to remove the needle. The tube drops to the bottom and leaks on the floor with a translucent viscous liquid.

Looks like he wants to help me with the cannula on my arm. My heartbeat monitor beeps more rapidly. “Hold it! And done!” he removed the needle and placed a tissue on the injection site with high pressure “Hold it for one minute. Press it against the skin,” he says and nervously removes some of my blood which dripped on my arm. Then he removes the electrodes which are scanning my heartbeat. The flatline will alarm everyone. “Where are your clothes? What else do you need?” he acts almost viscerally. His face looks awfully pale. He doesn’t want to do this, I feel it in my bones.

“I don’t know, I don’t even know how I ended up in Arcadia Bay. Last time I woke up in 2015, it was the fun house in Portland. I guess it is in Portland,” I answer him, while leaving the bed. I plummet and fall hardly. Damn, for how long have I been lying in beds? My calves are thin, the thighs almost gone. No muscles, so Steven has to help me with that, too. A nurse runs into the sickroom. No, you won’t stop me!

I raise my right arm and rewind time. Simultaneously, I see my written notes on my body beaming and shining brightly. Hence “There will be no violins when you die” – almost faded – becomes legibly. The nurse runs in reverse. I stop when I was removed from the last electrode.

“What the fuck? Max, how did you…? Never mind, where are your clothes?” the heartbeat monitor continues beeping, although I’m not connected any longer. He comes to me and helps me getting up from the ground. “Thanks, get _your_ stuff first, and then search for my mine, okay?” I say to him exhaustedly. He nods and grabs the present and puts it into his bag. And still, he walks almost a million miles per hour. How does he manage walking that fast?

“Shit, this wardrobe’s locked!” he tries to open a white wardrobe built into the wall. Fire extinguisher! “Grab that fire extinguisher and break it!” I order him while trying to get on my legs again. Tough luck, Max. They can’t sustain your weight. And you’re not even that heavy. “Fire extinguisher? They’re secured. Once I remove one of them, it’ll set off the alarm,” he explains.

But then he walks next to the door and puts his hands on the extinguisher. “Fuck it!” he yanks it off the wall and runs to the wardrobe. The wailing alarm screeches through the hospital. He slams into the wardrobe, which turns out to be a giant safe for medical supplies. “What the fuck is all that?” he startles and concludes, “That’s all your medication! What the hell?” Since I can’t get up from the bed, I have to rewind. The wardrobe filled with clothes is somewhere else.

I raise my hand and rewind to the spot, when Steven tries to open the reputed wardrobe.

“Fire extinguisher? They’re secured. Once I remove one of them, it’ll set off the alarm,” he says again. “Don’t do it! It won’t go out well,” I change my mind – to him. “Look around, somewhere… it has to be somewhere,” I’m getting nervous. The heartbeat sensor hasn’t stopped, yet. The German accomplice looks under my bed. “There, they’ve stuffed everything into that… sports bag,” he hauls a big duffel bag over his shoulder. “Can you walk? … let me help you,” he offers to be a crutch.

“Urgh, you’re light enough. This should work,” he encourages us. “You can change clothes inside my car. Where will we head to?” he asks. “Portland. Anywhere there, but not here in Arcadia Bay,” I tell him. We leave my room. The heartbeat sensor now permanently beeps. The flatline has emerged and postponed two minutes later. “Shit, they’ll notice your disappearance pretty fast,” he grabs my chest a little harder to increase walking speed. It hurts a little, because his fingers dig into my ribs. In what ward are we? Thought I knew Arcadia Bay’s hospital well enough.

 _look outside_  
freedom is imminent  
he’ll let you fall

Not now, brain, I must focus. “Damn, they see us,” he stops and changes direction. I hobble along with him. My thighs burn already and each new step hurts more. I’d love to run with him, but I need muscles. He turns left at the next junction. People looking at us, some of them consider reporting this weird looking escape to a nurse, however, none of them actively stops us. We are not planning on staying anyway. “Fuck, we’re surrounded, Max,” he halts immediately and looks around. To our right, there’s an opened fire escape staircase. Two to three nurses per hallway block our escapeway.

I raise my hand and rewind as much as I can. Fuck dammit, Steven walks away from me, I will fall when I stop the rewind.

Told you! The German must be back in my sickroom, I hope I didn’t rewind too far. My nose bleeds a little, can’t rewind again, shortly. Steps are running into my direction. The hell? He found his way along with the duffel bag? How? “I saw my own self walking away with you… what the fuck are you causing to this place?” he whispers while picking me up. “Get to the emergency door to your right!” I point at the door. “Also secured,” he looks at a warning plate that tells us, we’ll be punished for abuse.

“Break it, let me out and I’ll do the rest,” I tell him. “Here goes nothing,” he says in lieu of me. Thanks for robbing my sayings. A red bright light flashes rapidly next to the door handle, after the door has been opened. “Mind the step!” he helps me getting out. “Max, your nose… you sure, you want to do this?” – “No time for doubts… you know what? You will repeat this question anyways,” I say during the next rewind.

This time I only go back to the point, where he wanted to pick me up from the ground.

Still, my thighs burn like flowing acid. Every fiber hurts. I open the fire door from the outside. Hope, it won’t… oh fuck, my nose! I fall against the door. I’m not blacking out, though. It’s just, that my strength has gone, for a second. Steven hears the loud impact against the glass emergency door. He comes out and helps me up all over.

“This caused the alarm. We have to hurry. Oh, look…,” he stops right there and points at the parking lot. “I parked there. It’s not far anymore. What else can you do, with your pow… your nose… you sure, you want to do this?” he realizes my blood-smeared visage, yet iterates the same question. It makes me smile. Sweet irony.

“Can you walk the exit stairs? Will the railing suffice in terms of grip?” he nervously takes the first two steps down. “My legs hurt. I can’t walk…,” I let him know. At the same time, I regard the scarred abrasion on my leg. An indication that all those things in 2013 had really happened, the scar on my belly – as mentioned before – isn’t there however.

I can’t move a muscle without struggling. “Do what you can, I try to not get caught,” I tell him and sit down on the rusty lattice bottom. Even the muscles on my buttocks feel tiny, as though the doctors and shrinks were planning on going fully comatose with me. Think about the cupboard which looked like a wardrobe. Filled with medicine. Did they plan this? First the muscles, after that my brain? No time for any questions.

While my random thoughts about time, space, place and reason, I hear the bag dropping on ground level. “Coming!” he shouts and hurries up the stairs. Meanwhile an alarm has been set off inside the ward of my sickroom. Some steps inside the building run back and forth. Voices shout here and there, nurses are searching for me. A security guard passes the glass door behind which I’m sitting. He hasn’t spotted me, what luck!

“I’ll try to carry you,” my savior grasps me under my legs and armpits. “Shit, I can’t lift you. I’m not strong enough,” he gives up on it. “C’mon, we need to get out of here. We’re out in the open to them,” he helps me up and tries to carry as much of my weight, as possible.

Don’t ask, how we managed, to go down the fire escape staircase without falling or anything else. We managed and how! I’m surprised about how we made it down altogether with no further injuries. “Whew, I’ll throw the bag in the trunk, after that, I’ll pick you up,” he sets off. Exhausted and almost hobbling, he rushes to his car. Not Warren’s, though. He replaced it with a fancier modern car. Never did he pay this out of his own pocket. I’m sure he’s not rolling in money on his own – not at that age.

“Found her!” somebody tightly grabs on my shoulders. The fingers dig into my skin so that it hurts. “No!” I scream. “She’s hurt… her visitor tries to kidnap her!” the security guard shouts as he inspects my blood-smeared face. I can’t fight, I’m not even strong enough to stay on my own feet. I must rewind, but I’ll suffer even more.

I raise my right hand. The rewind works fine, although the security guard has laid his own hand on my wrist to prevent me from running away. I’ve rewound to the point, when Steven and I have reached ground level.

“Whew, I’ll throw the bag in the trunk, after that, I’ll pick you…,” – “No, we have to stick together!” I manage to tell him, but my strength is totally gone. I fall harshly. “Shit, don’t leave me here!” he screams. I hear myself being dragged over tarmac. “Found her, visitor’s trying to kidnap her!” a voice shouts. My eyes open. “Hold up, I think I can walk again,” I utter while waking up.

The trunk is opened. Apparently, his keys have a switch that opens the trunk without the need to open them by hand. He leaves me at the back of his car and tries to throw the bag inside. The security guy runs towards us. During my attempt to get up on my own, the guard has almost reached the car. He attacks Steven, who’s not realizing the attack. Not another rewind!

I raise my hand and watch the security guard running away. I stop shortly after that, because my head aches terribly.

I’m at the back of the trunk, whereas the German is still on his way to me. “How did you get… never mind,” he reaches the car and is fairly surprised by the time travelling skills. The security guard runs the same route. “Punch him with the duffel bag!” I whisper to him. Steven doesn’t understand and looks back. The guard catches him and beats him in the face. I can’t rewind over and over here. He beats the shit out of him, instead of arresting me… correct, he called him an abductor. Other doctors and nurses follow, but yet are still far away.

 _hit him with the wrench_  
and after that hit the other one  
put all your weight into it and aim for the head

I see a monkey wrench inside the right netting of the trunk. Oh no. I must do this without rewinding. I grab the wrench, Steven has managed to nudge the guard off of him, I try to use all my strength to smash the long metal into his face. I hit his shoulder instead. The guard screams in pain, and shouts at the end,

“You fucking brat!” Steven hurries back to the trunk, takes the wrench out of my hand and closes the trunk after throwing the wrench inside. I slowly hobble to the door and get in. Blood almost spurts out of my nose. I try to cover it but my hands shake too much, so that blood splats into my eyes. The engine starts and I give my best to stay awake. “You’d better have a good fucking reason for me to do all this shit!” he screams and leaves the parking with squealing tires.

“Thank you… you’ve saved my life,” I say while struggling to keep my eyes open. My lids literally twitch to hold themselves open. Everything’s so blurry and out of focus, overexposing light rays into my irises. I can’t rewind another time. I have to wait. “Yeah, and endangered my life on the other hand. Very nice tradeoff,” he says while accelerating more and more.

“We’re on the highway, away from hospital. The police will search for us, no matter how much you can fiddle about with time,” he admits and breathes hastily. “I just need a minute.” – “Yup and I need a fucking new life, after this shit. I’m a foreigner kidnapping a mentally ill hospitalized patient,” he’s pissed. Okay then, one last time a rewind. I’ll stay inside his car, nobody shall spot me in the footwell.

“Can you buckle up, please? Don’t want to lose you, again,” he says. Again? No time for any questions. I huddle up inside the footwell. “What are you doing, buckle up already!” – “Shut up and hold my hand,” I want him to grab my left hand. It seems likely that rewinding can make someone feel a déjà-vu, provided he has physical contact with me. “Fuck, no. No more games, I’m sick of this bullshit!” I’ve got no time for another fight on the lam. I try to reach his wrist, but he slaps it away. Am I stupid, I can grab his knee.

While laying my hand on his right leg, I concurrently rewind time to the point where he opens the trunk of his car. He should notice a change, it’s my last chance to leave Arcadia Bay without being seen. While rewinding, I can feel the warm and wet blood leaving my nose and flowing to the chin. I black out completely. I hope that I won’t reawake in 2013 but all those actions in 2015 were a bust or worse!

Tires spin. It’s calm, quiet. Music plays – a radio I think, or what else could it be? The car stops, and a voice talks, however not to me. The language used, isn’t English. What and who is talking to whom? I’m asking myself too much again, aren’t I? “Oh, see’s grodeh ouph gaiwoght…,” the voice says. “Ja, ciao,” he bids goodbye. Am I trying to understand German?

He realizes my slow awakening, “I’ve got so many questions to you, but first… howdy? Welcome back. No one noticed us leaving,” definitely him. “Hey Siegbert,” I accidentally call him again. He laughs instantly. I assume, he knows that name from somewhere.

“Nice having you back. Look over there, our old school,” he points at Blackhell. “Who were you talking to?” I ask him however. “My mother. Haven’t talked to her in weeks,” a brief answer. “Can we talk for a minute? I mean it’s one o’clock in the afternoon, so why not… talking about… all of this?” now he’s the person being curious. Well admittedly, I understand him.

“As long as we leave Arcadia Hell, no problem,” I look up to the six-foot giant next to me. My vision couldn’t be blurrier. Thank God, we left that hospital undetected. Truth be told, I have big issues understanding my attack against the guard. I know that he was a problem that I had to take care of, but shit… it’s hard to believe that I can rather deal with my unholy time-powers than with violence. Violence however wrecks my brain. I really hope that I never do anything like that ever again. I feel sorry for that guard… I rewound… period!

The radio displays a song named: “frames – the encoun”. I’m sure it means “encounter” but the display isn’t wide enough. Frames, really? “I’ll ask my first question. How comes, you know this band?” I’m curious. He smiles and lowers the volume until it’s hardly audible, almost turned off, “The radio’s busted, always zapping between songs… or maybe it’s my old flash drive attached to it,” he explains why he has lowered the volume.

“You can change clothes. I won’t watch… of course. Trust me…,” he smiles and points at a little pile of clothes on the backseats. He folded them for me. They’re not crumpled. “Thank you so much,” I smirk. “Don’t sweat it,” he says while leaving the car. He’s heading to a guardrail and drinks some water. “Give a holler, once you’re done,” he says. Okay, I haven’t grown up more… that’s a plus. Let’s see. Jeans, shirt and jacket… I’m still as boring as always. I should get some clothes from Chloe, once I’m back.

 _i love you_ ~~Chloe~~  
we will be back soon  
don’t mess this up another time

“Ouch,” I fall on the pile of clothes. “Sorry for heading back, but… man, and I thought my headaches were obnoxious,” Steven has returned because he heard my sudden pain attack. “Come on, let’s head back inside. You asked me something,” he says although I forgot my question. “Buckle up,” he chuckles. I do as requested and we’re off on the road again. “Frames, you asked me about them,” he pauses here and all the sudden, he looks a tad blue.

“I felt like an invader to you. So… I left you alone… the day Kate kicked us out of her room. Can you remember?” he wants me to recall the exact day. “I do remember, yes. Mark insulted you… and threatened you, because he was worried about me,” I add. He nods and continues, “Exactly… phew, that was a shitty day. Y’know, us both, we resumed our friendship like three weeks ago. And you didn’t remember anything. I was afraid your memory was disintegrating. It’s coming back, I’m glad to hear. I digress… where was I… uhm, yeah… Kate kicked us out,” he pauses here to take a breather. With his tongue outstretched, he indicates his exhaustion and smiles a little. Then he goes on,

“I left your room and took the album of my favorite band back. At the same time, I discovered the album “In Via” on your shelf and made some research, later that day. German band, awesome post-rock stuff! I love it, especially ‘don’t stay here’. It’s amazing,” radiant with joy, he describes his emotions. “I remember that I was having trouble trusting you,” I let him know. “But we had the greatest time of our school life. You are the greatest friend, one could have,” he smiles and opens his arms to hug me. I evade his attempt to hug. Why?

 _he is a liar_  
he knows more than you  
you won’t ever find out about it  
ask about kate

“Cut it out!” I squint and cover my face. Steven turns away grievously disappointed. “I’m sorry, all of this is too much right now,” I explain… or try to explain. “It’s fine. Shoulda known about it,” he sadly talks to himself. I will not rewind, now. This would be a mistake. I can’t go back into my state of unconsciousness. “I shouldn’t give you the present… I should give it back to Joyce, I’m afraid,” he says. “No, I was supposed to be given the present, two years ago,” I try to change his mind.

_ask him about kate_

“What about Kate?” I ask him. He doesn’t respond. “What about Joyce? Tell me more please,” he keeps up being silent. After uttering a very long sigh, he shakes his head. Means, he doesn’t want to talk, right now. “You wanted answers about me… ask… anything,” I try to reason with him.

“I distrusted your idea to leave the hospital, but the more you showed off, the more I believed. Getaway with Steven. Am I a substitute to that creepy Mark… or am I just your only friend left? What the fuck ever – who am I to you? Definitely not a friend, right?”

 _ask him about kate_  
he’s lying to us  
hiding pain

Ouch, I cover my face again. After a short time, he goes on, “Haven’t you realized, what harm you did to Kate and… me?” – “How is she?” I persist, but he turns away avoiding eye contact. “She’s fine… another topic: we agreed, that I’d help you escape, but I can’t give you that present, without any knowledge. What the fuck’s going on,” he explains but seems to not tell the truth about Kate. “Why didn’t you hug me at the hospital and avoided it right now? Two years have passed and you behave all the same to me. Why? To this day…?”.

The little display of his radio shows the date. October eighth. Wait… I studied my diary, it must be the same day Kate had jumped off the roof. But today’s Thursday.

 _suspension of disbelief_  
you must crush his struggle  
you will find kate eventually  
~~chloe~~ will be there for you, too

Fuck, what the hell? My inner voice sounds almost like my own, but it’s muffled… barely audible, although clear to understand. October eighth…? This 2015 is exactly a two-year offset? Oh crap, now I remember every word Kate had said on the roof … Kate? The German nervously plays with his necklace underneath his shirt. Doesn’t pick it out yet. Why is he evading everything I want to know about Kate?

“What happened to Kate?” I ask him. He looks out of the window instead, his necklace tinkling as he. “I want my answers first,” he insists and slaps his hands on his legs. Oh, damn this, he can’t be serious. “Are you… fuck off, man…,” I curse and knee the glove box in anger. By all the heft, I’ve put into my kick, the glovebox suddenly opens and folds out by itself.

“Stop it, easy! This is not my car. My boss’ll kill me!” he closes the glovebox again, but something slips out of it and falls. Chloe’s three bullet necklace jangles into the footwell. Like an instinct, I grab the necklace in mid-air. It drives me crazy. I point at the necklace,

“What the hell are you hiding? Tell me… where is she?” after finishing my sentence, I feel my throat getting sore. He’d better know. “What about the present…? Tell me, tell me already!” My scream turns into a desperate cry of fear. He shakes all of a sudden. What is he doing? He leaves his car without closing the door. All the adrenaline. I can see it running through his veins. He breathes heavily, “Fuck my life,” he whispers.

I exit the car as well to confront him again. Where the hell did he get Chloe’s necklace. He looks through the pine trees up the shore. It’s warm… the clouds approach Arcadia Bay. It’s gonna rain. “Tell me! Where is she,” I scream at him. I have to support my body on his car, although anger and despair makes me ignore the lack of muscular power. Every tendon and sinew burns like shit.

He turns around and obviously fights against something, “Chloe… her mother asked me to give this necklace to you…,” he says. Something at least. Not enough to me, “That’s not the present, right?” I counter him and try to balance myself without using his car’s hood. Are they all… gone? His own necklace… first it hid beneath the shirt and made its way out, but… it’s Kate’s necklace. The cross. Sparkling in daylight.

No, you can’t be serious! “Quick, drive us to the graveyard,” I shout desperately. He’ll drive us there, whether he agrees or not. “I can’t, I’m begging you…,” – “I am begging _you_! Get us there, fast!” I almost fall, while heading back into his car. Shit… please… I don’t want to see their names engraved on tombstones.

“Max, I don’t know if that’s such a… sane idea…,” he doubts it. I won’t answer him. Heading back into his car, he turns the key and starts the engine. Slowly we hit the road and head down the street. “I’m imploring you, please don’t make me go there,” his voice becomes… disquieting. He swallows. I can read pain off his face. Don’t make me ask more questions.

 _he suffers_  
you will suffer  
they had suffered  
and it is all your fault  
you have to distrust them all

We are there. It wasn’t far away. “No, **no** … I’ve got such a bad feeling about this,” I talk to myself and him at the same time. “Wait… you are not capable of walking… lemme help,” Steven tries to stop me. The graveyard in front of us. My legs drive me. They can hold my weight. It doesn’t hurt yet. They make me run. It’s like an invisible force hoisting my body to find its way to the unknown goal.

“Wait…,” he shouts, but I’m running to the place… to the place I remember Chloe being buried. Tears run over my face. I can’t believe revisiting this awful place, just to make sure, someone didn’t die. Hell, it hurts inside my chest. The only pain I sense at the moment. I reach the burial area from the ceremony. I dart to the tombstone which isn’t there, yet. This space is empty. My watered eyes wouldn’t be able to read inscriptions, anyway. Oh my God, I’m relieved. The German has followed me. A little exhausted he asks me, “Where… why… cut us a break. Be so nice. Here, let me help you” and having problems finding the right words.

“Thought, I’d find Chloe’s tombstone here,” I say. “Let’s go… to that bench over there, okay?” he suggests to leave this place. Nothing is buried here, yet. “Let me explain everything to you, but please… don’t be stubborn, just for once okay?” he asks me. I nod at him. My instinct, it still drives my muscles. They made me learn to walk again. However, the German helps me up to the wooden bench. I don’t reject his help.

A hill. Kind of an overlook, a vantagepoint above the graveyard underneath the dark-gray blanket of clouds and bending trees in the winds. The scarf around his neck flutters with the winds. It’s colder than 2013’s October. Well, this day is a blast anyway. The German scratches his forehead and looks away. He’s concentrated and closed his eyes. A good spot to repeat my questions.

“Please, for Christ’s sake, tell me, what have I missed,” I’m begging him for answers. Both of us keep up a uncomforting silence. While wailing winds circle around us, I’m watching down the seemingly endless rows of gravestones.

“Okay fine, there are two options. You either go down _that_ path… or _I’ll_ tell you about Joyce. You can keep the necklace of her daughter,” – “That’s not fair! Tell… what will I face down this path?” but then I conclude my question, “Don’t tell me…,” my heart stops, all anxiety, stress, grief has swallowed my capability to feel my own body. He understands, doesn’t even need to say yes or nod.

I’m gathering strength, on and on. The lack of muscles doesn’t matter. He looks at me and says, “Go alone, that’s your truth to find. Make a decision here. I’ll either tell you about Joyce’s and my meeting at this morning or… go down this path. When you’re done, we should go to the Two Whales diner and eat something.” – “Why are you doing this to me?” I palpitate with fear.

 _don’t choose to go that way_  
don’t do this on your own  
don’t stay here  
don’t go there  
don’t do it

“You’ve gotta consider this first… before you get any answers,” he answers frigidly and hence doesn’t realize my wrecked-in-grief-expression on my face. I get up from the bench and head down the path. Leave him behind me sitting on the wooden bench on the hill. “I’ll be there for you, always,” he concludes and brushes some fallen leaves off his shoulders. I could use some music right now. Something that carries me. I could need some solace during my slow walk through endless ranges of tombs.

Gravestone by another, I read engravings inside the marble. No familiar names thus far. I’m relieved for every unknown name I’m passing. Within my field of vision, I’ve seen the German getting up from the bench and slowly following the same path. He really knows?

Kate Beverly Marsh  
Sep 12 1995  
\- Nov 27 2014 -

I read her name without realizing first. The rest becomes illegible because… my eyes. My vision, the strength – all of it. Despair drove my muscles and now it’s all gone, has turned into mourning. What have I done, “Kate! No! Kate, oh please…,” I fall over with my eyes closes. Not giving a shit about how hard I might fall. Something warm catches me, though. “Why… did I do this… why,” my voice burns inside my gullet. Every swallow increases pain along with the pressure on my eyes. More and more tears leave my lids and warm my cold dry cheeks.

 ~~kate, no~~  
kate  
_not there anymore_  
this pain  
~~kate won’t be there~~  
we miss you kate  
please come back

The German knew, I wasn’t going to survive it. The little voice’s echo inside my head doesn’t help, but at least it doesn’t accuse me. The cold necklace drops out of Steven’s shirt and lands onto my neck. I don’t see it, but I know what it is. As if Kate floats around us and tries to make a sign. What have I done? How did I…? I regret every decision I made, I regret leaving the first time fragment. I shouldn’t have left. I really fucked this place up. _I_ mean it – _not_ the voices in my head.

Why did he tell me, she was fine? What the hell is he still hiding. “It’s alright. I’m here,” is everything he whispers. That all? No apology? Why lying to me? “Why didn’t you tell me? What have you done!” I scream at the German. All this grief and loss turns into anger. Blindly I move my weak arms into his direction. I try to beat him or hit him, I don’t care how much damage I do. Fuck this! Fuck all of this! I can’t bring her back to life. Her path of death is pre-determined just like any other person.

Steven moans as I hit his face somewhere. I’m blind, my arms hurt. They are not used to be moved. I should rot in a bed, drowning in a coma. He embraces me tightly. I use all remaining power to slam on his back until every inch of my body burns from the inside. His necklace clatters, as I move. “Fuck you!” I scream although my voice isn’t strong enough to shout. Every fiber of my body has lost strength. Only my eyes release their tears. The only thing that keeps working.

With the cold cross on my neck, there’s something else, dripping on my neck. Warm and very wet. I turn around and see, that his eyes are also wet. He’s not crying however, he sucks on my grief. The wet drop on my neck was blood. I hurt him on his eyebrow barely his eye. A small cut. The blood glints inside the light. The clouds behind him gloom changing his appearance into a sinister silhouette.

“What have you done?” I say to him with my hoarse voice. “Ouch,” he removes the blood off his brow. “Are you done? You done accusing me?” he digs his fingers into my waist. The look on his face – disappointment. With his blood-stained hand, he removes my tears. His fingers are cold. He looks pale. “Shit I’m miserable. I feel terrible…,” I swallow at the end. Talking hurts. “Speaking hurts,” he has the same problem and cracks a bleak smile.

“I understand. You didn’t know any of this, but I’m not responsible for any of this,” he says after some time. “I was blind with anger,” I cough while saying anger. With his cold blood-smeared hand, he brushes the back of my head. My hair freezes along with his fingers. Rain will come as expected. “I’m so fucking blind,” I look up to him and hope, he’s not mad at me in return for his wound.

What luck he’s smiling and helps me getting up on my legs. “Oh… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to hurt you,” I repeat my apology. “None taken, luckily you hit, I’ll be blind soon enough anyway,” he points down the pathway to show the graveyard’s exit. “C’mon, we’ll chat more at the diner,” he kindly says.

“Tell me, what happened to her?” I continue to persist, asking the same questions with my destroyed voice. By now, I should’ve understood that it’s pointless. He lied for me, to protect me. He tried…

“Later. You’ll need to come to terms with this, first. We should return to the coast. It was hard enough for me, to be at this gloomy place again,” he explains and wants to head back the path, but chooses a different direction.

_there’ll be more  
seek them_

“That’s the wrong way to the exit, we can go down this way and take a shortcut,” every word hurts inside my throat. He’s suddenly nervous. What is he hiding this time? “You know there’s more?” I viscerally ask and shake myself out of his strong grasp. No matter how deep grief has sunken into my bones, my curiosity has revived the power in my tiny muscles. “Don’t…,” he wants to stop me, but even interrupts himself. I scurry along the pathway. No other familiar names, so far. I cannot believe my eyes.

Ryan Caulfield & Vanessa Caulfield  
Feb 23 1972 & Jun 26 1973  
\- Oct 09 2013 –

No, no… fuck! I look away and walk further. This is a nightmare. Finally, I’ve reached the gravestone, I didn’t ever want to see ever again,

Chloe Elizabeth Price  
Mar 11 1994  
\- Oct 08 2013 –

 _you are next_  
this is our work  
you are next  
this is our work

All this bullshit, all this grief. I never expected things to be worse. Steven has followed me and tries to catch me, while falling over on the muddy ground. Some tiny raindrops hang in the air. They mingle with fresh tears under my sealed eyes.

There’s no time for crying. I’m crying unconsciously. There is no feeling of letting go of something. I want back into Chloe’s arms, Kate’s arms, my parents’ arms. There was no time for any grief. It wrecked my brain. There is a difference between melancholy and grief – yet they are nothing compared to pure devastation like this. Everything I’ve seen has crushed my heart. Burst it, shot those billion shards into the sea.

I’m away now. Here is darkness. I’m sure I lost consciousness on the graveyard. I hope the police isn’t searching for us in all Arcadia Bay, for Steven wanted to visit the diner with me. I’m not sure, whether I can eat something after this tragedy. And my voice inside my head should shut up, just for only fucking once.

 _there is water_  
the frozen ebb and choked flow  
wake up, now

Light enters my eyes. My throat aches just as bad as my head. The tears have dried on my cheeks. They almost feel like a thin layer of wax on my skin. A cold gust of wind blows through the car, whistling beyond the shore. Where are we? The parking area.

Steven sits on the hood and beholds waves surging against the rocks. The sound of the ocean calms. I guess that was his intention for coming here. I open the hefty door from his company car. He startles on the hood and smiles mildly. Still, my muscles lack so much power. I sit down next to him.

“So, can we talk?” I ask him. “Sure, go ahead,” he replies and takes a sip on a small bottle of beer. “What happened?” two words suffice. “To who?” he wants my answer to be more precise. “All of them, Kate, Chloe, my parents,” I answer, struggling against another fit of weeping. “Found your diary in the duffel bag. Didn’t read, of course. But maybe you’ll find answers inside,” he responds and gets up from the hood and walks a little toward the boardwalk. “Don’t give me a rough time here, please,” I stand firm over it. “And why aren’t we in the diner as promised?”

“Kate… uh, I wasn’t keeping in touch with her for a long time. One day, her mother had called me to attend a burial ceremony. Her family’s very religious and I was afraid I’d mess up… but no, quite the opposite. I was given her necklace by her crying sisters,” and he grabs the necklace’s cross with his right fingers. “I’m not a Christian, but I admire her family for all the benevolence. Even if something cruel as that had happened, they abide by the rule of benevolence. Unbelievable…,”

“What happened to her,” I repeat my question. “Thanksgiving 2014, she ran errands… never came back. The media was all over Arcadia Bay, because of the missing Kate. I was up in Seattle, so I didn’t know much about the fuss. Later, there was talk of abduction and… much… much later… rape, nothing confirmed. Her body was found on a trail in the fields. Farmer found her. The murderer wasn’t identified until today. Death caused by twenty stitches into her chest. The seventeenth was lethal,” he sighs at the end and takes another sip on his beer. Swallowing hard, he sniffs and clears his throat.

“Oh, this is worse than hell,” I lie down on his hood and regard the sky. It will rain eventually. Dark and gray, and blurry. I can’t believe how I managed to delay her fate, and made her suffer so much more. “That’s not your fault, stop blaming yourself,” and he comes back to the car and sits next to me. “Chloe…?” almost impossible to pronounce her name.

“Okay… I had talked to her mother, before I came to you at the hospital. Joyce trusted me, because I was a German plus a friend of yours. She wanted me to give you her necklace and an old present, she was never able to give to you,” he explains. “The last day of her daughter’s life was exactly two years, ago. Joyce has mentioned a fight between you two. She and her husband anticipated Chloe to sleep, because… you managed to make her turn off deafening music. She overdosed herself with too much alcohol and other drugs. She locked her door, and died of alcohol intoxication. When the ambulance arrived, it was too late by two hours. I don’t know any more details,” he adds.

“Where is Joyce? I must talk to her,” I try to sit up straight. There’s not enough time to think about the why. I need to know more details on what happened. “She’s not waiting tables. She waited for the day to give someone Chloe’s presents, because she couldn’t bear, visiting you. She left Arcadia Bay, today,” he tells the rest of the story and scooches a little closer to me on the hood.

_that’s not the entire story  
he lies to you again_

“Why aren’t we at the Diner’s place?” I dig my head into his right arm. He pets the back of my head. “I saw the police showing up near the graveyard. I won’t have luck another time. I don’t want to get busted for kidnapping,” he asserts. “Nothing, you experience here, **right now** , is true. I will change everything,” I assure him. “What you mean?” he doesn’t understand my point. “I told you, I’ve got time altering skills. By now, it’s more a curse than a blessing, but still I’m able to change things to the better,” I go on. Instantly Steven draws breath, “Good, finally you tell _me_ what the fuck’s going on with you,” he’s grateful.

“Let’s stroll the boardwalk. I know a bench there, where we can talk… or I can talk,” I suggest. He says okay and helps me to walk. I don’t even know how and where to start the story. The watch at his arm displays 3pm. So, plenty time to tell him the whole story. I know that it won’t change anything, but since the Real-Max mentioned to rather trust him, I assume he might help me out with some things. Whether they devastate me even more or help me out.

I can’t believe having seen so much shit in the last hour. Also, I want to know what happened to my parents… but I should find out without lacerating my heart. First and foremost, I will tell him everything I remember. The time fragment, the story of “life is strange”, my alternate 2013, and the Real-Max’s decisions. I hope he will understand. We’ve reached the bench. Watching the sea going wild and the rain teeming down onto us. He seems to enjoy the pouring rain on his skin.

* * *

 

How much time has passed? I didn’t stop talking. I’m speaking fast and he constantly nods – indicates he’s listening. Those words, they’re all tangible… the story is present… he understands every smallest detail I recall. The worst thing of all, as I was mentioning my ability to travel with polaroid images, he instantly said, “Oh God!” That was his only comment besides “uh-huh” and “yeah” and “okay”. Sometimes he played with Kate’s necklace, but I kept talking. He chuckled here and there, especially when I told him, that I spilt Frank’s beans. Or the Siegbert Dongle name, I coined as when I came up with a substitute name. He didn’t even frown, when I admitted my heavy distrust towards him.

My throat has dried up after my very long hour of telling him everything I could remind myself of. He didn’t interrupt me nor ask anything nor question any detail. Astounding. After I had finished my very long story, we kept up a very long silence. Five minutes, or so, I don’t know. The voice inside my head didn’t interrupt me, neither. It happened to trust him or has fallen asleep – both would be nice.

“So, did I get it right, that you originate from an entity called time fragment?” he asks out of nowhere. “Yes, why do you ask, I mentioned it for so many times,” I’m also a tad disappointed about this question. “Because of your initial amnesia. You knew nothing about 2013, and even now you know nothing – nothing about yourself. I have the feeling, you try to be something which you aren’t. It seems likely that your escape out of the time fragment bestowed a second chance upon you, and yet you’re searching for answers which never existed. You can tailor your fate, that’s… amazing,” he thoroughly describes his thoughts.

“If there _was_ a mechanism that repeats days, over and over, use it as a second chance. Look, I’ve seen medical supplies in that cupboard; those weren’t the primitive stuff. Those were the highly hazardous compounds they use to put patients into an artificial coma. My mother works with hard drugs and I know some of them, thanks to her,” he goes on. “And Nathan Prescott isn’t that of a bad guy, his family is. Watch out what you’ll do when you are back in the past. Find your laptop… get it back,” he points out. “I understand your reason to leave Arcadia Bay, since so many bad things have happened here,” he says looking at the sea.

“So, this is the place, where you and alternative Chloe strolled along and ogled The Golden Hour?” he looks to his left. “Yeah, and I’m glad there are no wheelchair marks on the ground, and no burning horizon to be afraid of,” I answer him while searching for any wheelchair marks. “It’s raining, sure there’ll be no marks dig in the sand,” he smiles. His hair is long and he had to draw it back to his neck, so that he can see. I should do the same. Yeesh, so wet and soaked in with water.

“All this lack of muscle power makes me feel like her,” I sadly add. “There are no stranded whales,” The German poet gets up from the bench. He looks down to me. I’m shivering, the cold water has cooled my body.

“There are so many things… I had to sacrifice so much…,” I say, but he interrupts me, “You don’t know about sacrifice.” What did he say? “You can’t be serious, I thought I told you the entire story…,” I stand to my point. “ _You_ know about loss. Sacrifice is a choice you make; loss is a choice made for you. The Max in your story had to sacrifice things. You believe the wrong story,” he looks at me.

“Look, you told me a very long story about being inside an alternate reality, which means you are not the same person you remember to be, right? Now, you either use your new opportunity or you don’t. _This_ looks more like you don’t know what you really want, and you live backwards all the time,” he pauses here and turns around.

“Back when I remember the day, when Kate threw us out of her room, I had the feeling you tried to tear us apart. From that day, Kate almost distrusted anyone. If you go back to 2013, you should take care of yourself first, and then… fix the rest. Make Kate trust other people again,” he suggests and faces me again.

“I sacrificed Chloe…,” I persist once again. “No, you did **not**. You woke up in an entity, a dimensionless void filled with mixed memories. Anything you did there, had no effect to this real world. It was your place to stay. But you determined to change the _real_ world instead. All that by leaving your dimension. You are empty now – a hull. You can’t remember your most crucial choices, you are at a new beginning. Use 2013 as long as you can. Find out what you really want. And please,” he waits a second and draws another deep breath,

“Come to me on Tuesday over and over, will you? Listen to some music” And he smiles at the end while getting up from the bench “I was a victim of bullying… what the hell happened before my escape out of the time fragment?” I ask, but he shakes his head already, “Didn’t look like bullying to me. More like the opposite.”

Well forget it then. There’s no need to ask any more questions. My mind has no place in 2013. I’m wrong. I raise my hand for his help, to get up from the bench. The rain has stopped. The clouds are racking away. “So, where are we heading now, very exactly?” he asks a third time while going back to the parking lot.

“Portland… I have to fall asleep in your car. Doesn’t matter where, but not Arcadia Bay. When I fall asleep in the hospital, it could likely happen, that the Doctors are going fully comatose and that would kill me on so many layers…” I respond and explain as much as I can. “So, if I recall everything correctly, you’ll be away and this reality closes up, distorts and all the stuff I’ve experience has literally never happened?” an appropriate question back to me.

“I mean, it could happen that I’ll never meet my girlfriend ever again… and I’ll still have to cope with my ex’s fate… all my success at work… it’ll be gone. Your decisions can influent me, even make me an evil person I don’t want to be,” he adds to his previous thought. “Could be, I’ll treat you as a friend, that’s everything I can promise,” I reassure him. He unlocks his car, “Get your diary, maybe you’ll find something helpful,” he grabs a bottle of water and almost empties it with one big gulp. The radio in his car, automatically switches programs and jumps through tracks.

“Ah dammit, every time I unlock you, you have to go nuts,” he talks to the radio and turns it off. “The jukebox inside the diner broke today, too. Guess my proximity kills hardware, haha,” he laughs at the end. “The jukebox broke?” I’m a little scared. “Yeah, and Joyce has told me yesterday has happened something else… some kind of snowfall, but she assumed that she was just… going crazy. She was happy when she took her stuff and left the diner for good,” he empties the rest of the bottle after this sentence. I open the trunk and open the big duffel-sports-whatever-bag and rummage around the pile of clothes. Gotcha!

I grab my diary and walk to the front seats and enter his car. He walks to the backseat area and gets another bottle. It’s beer, I think. “Drink? Oh, wait. Yuck?” he smiles and proves at the same time, that he has listened to my story. “Trust me, German beer is the best you can drink… normally I wouldn’t drink and drive, but… you know… since you will change everything… I think it doesn’t matter what actions I will take here and now,” he realizes the entire situation.

He opens the bottle with his bare hands. Ouch, that looked painful. “I’ll read my entries from Tuesday, now,” I let him know. Sitting on the hood and taking a big sip with his left hand, he uses the right hand to show the sign of the horns. Metaller at heart says, “Yessss.”

 I start reading the entry of October second:

“October second,

this day has started great already. I saw an old friend making out with me. I hung out with Kate and Siegbert Dangler Van Dongle and told Kate, he’s an asshole and she shouldn’t trust him. I met Mark, not to be confused with my skeevy photography teacher who did bad things to me the day before. Mark was the guy who came to rescue me in the dark room. We were shooting the breeze in the diner…”

Okay what the hell is this? 5pm? What the hell? I saw the sun moving with superspeed in my field of vision? The German sits on the hood. “Hey…, could you come over here, please?” I ask him and forgot his name again. He nods and jumps off the hood. “What’s wrong Maxi?” he asks. “Didn’t you notice… anything, and don’t call me that?” I wave about. “You look like a dork who realized that planet earth ain’t a sphere but a-flat?” he tilts his head and chuckles. “One hour has passed,” I bring it to his knowledge. “So?” he shrugs. “I’ve only read one paragraph,” I tell him.

“Proves you aren’t fast at reading,” he laughs. “You could’ve said something. I don’t want to waste your time,” I respond a little pissed. “Whose time? You’ve got all the time in the world. Just because you can’t rewind, doesn’t mean you don’t have any control about time,” he thinks about it differently. “Thanks for your patience… damn right a virtue,” I recite without really looking at him.

“So, how’s the entry?” he asks while hanging on the roof and stretches himself a bit. Good point, let’s read on:

“… then I met an old friend and we wallowed in childhood reminiscences. We hung out for quite some time. Unfortunately, I hurt myself at my leg and I had to see a doctor. Later, back at the dorms, Kate gave Siegbert Woodpenis the cold shoulder because she knew that I was going to hit on him and tried to pinch her future boyfriend. Whatever.”

This is… not me. What the fuck did I do? 6pm… what the hell? “Sieg… why didn’t you interrupt me?” I almost aggressively say to him, damn I totally forgot his name again. “I’m patient. So, what does it tell?” he changes the subject back to the entry. “It feels like those diary entries weren’t composed by me. It mentions the quarrel between Kate and you. She thought, I wanted to hit on you… but I’m not into boys,” I explain to him. He raises both his eyebrows, “Sure? Not into boys? I wouldn’t say that…”

Suddenly his radio turns on by itself again. “Grrr, need to get this trash-fuck-piece of garbage repaired,” he says and gets in the car. But before he can do something I stop his hand with mine, “Wait… it’s fine,” I tell him. “Goodness, what the shit is this?” he looks through the windshield.

He leaves the car, “Max, watch this!” What’s wrong now? I leave his car but don’t close the door, the song is too nice to shut it off. The solar eclipse. “Oh, my God!” I’m astonished. Steven also gapes at the eclipse and tries to find words while admiring the view.

“The song is ‘Si… gur… Rose with…’ I have no idea. The song’s broken… stops after five minutes of playtime… my flash drive likes to go nuts whenever this song plays.” I look inside his car and read the display’s description. “Saeglópur – Sigur Rós” it tells us. I start shivering, it’s getting cold, since we’re both still drenched in water.

“Oh my God, look the water!” he points at the sea. The water is frozen. Beams of light dapple on the icy surface. Temperature drops every passing second. My breath turns into a little cloud of evaporating haze. Cold wind tickles my nose. Where’s Siegbert? I look to the shore, but he disappeared. Has something changed again?

“Here,” he says from behind and puts me into his dry warm jacket. Didn’t hear his footsteps… quiet like a ghost. “Thank you, so much,” his jacket warms my body. “What’s your last name,” I ask him. “Stillwater,” he hesitates but answers.

“Stillwater? A German dwelling in America with an American last name? What’s that?” I wonder and laugh a little. “My father insisted on an English first name, and Stillwater, because that’s my girlfriends last name,” he answers while looking at the moon in front of the sun. “I can’t believe it. I’ve shifted Arcadia Bay’s fate by two years and added another layer on top of it…,” I talk to myself. “Plenty time to change your life. Repeat 2013 as often as necessary and improve your present condition, okay?” he looks at me.

“Let’s blow. Arcadia Bay doesn’t seem safe,” Mister Stillwater says. We both enter his fancy company car with the broken music player. “I’ll listen to this band, once I’m back in 2013,” I promise myself. “You should listen to P.O.D. instead. But that’s your choice… After all, I won’t remember any of this… I wish, I helped you a bit today,” he responds and starts the engine. “More than ever,” I smile. “Nothing will be like this… you wrote a letter to your parents. It could be, that I’ll never move to America and you never visit Blackwell. By the way, once we left Arcadia Bay, I’ll tell about your parents’ fate,” he leans back into his seat and marvels the frozen sea.

 _change_  
life is about change  
you have to change something

“I change as much, as I can. And if you are there… I’ll give you, what you deserve,” I promise him. “We all will change, you will change, too. Y'know what? One thing will never change. That you are beautiful to me,” he changes his gaze to me. I can’t tell, if he’s crying. He concludes enigmatically, “I am not living in the past… if you however can change everybody’s fate… go for it. Take care of yourself first, Memorize Max.”


	15. Red Phoenix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max leaves Arcadia Bay accompanied by her new friend. Ditching the old damned town, she sensed that the German is hiding something. On their way to portland they will face so many other unpleasent things.

**Chapter 15 – Red Phoenix  
Theme Song: Queens of the Stone Age - Fortress **

No route evades Two Whales diner. A constrained smile flashes over my lips. Steven drives carefully, stops the car at red lights. “If the police show up, you’ll tell me, right?” he asked about a million times. Local residents have left their homes staring at the frozen sea with the moon’s shadow cast over the thin iced ocean. Occasionally, Steven darts his view over to the passing solar eclipse.

“You know…” he sighs before talking again, “all these years, I’ve never been thinking about God or any other entity above us, but seeing this eclipse, the frozen sea, it makes me wonder. Kate’s cross feels cold on my chest. It’s like she’s watching us and asking God for making a sign.” Indeed, Kate’s there all the time. Around us, and probably judging me for not being able to save her all along with Chloe. It’s blatantly obvious. I’m incapable.

“We’ll leave Arcadia Bay behind us soon. Any last words?” he looks over to me. The sun’s glowing outlines burn his hair behind his head. His face appears to be darker. “Some music maybe?” I ask him to restart his player. After a long sigh he finally turns it on. “Music, something one can’t take away from you.” he sadly utters under his breath. But yeah, it’s something no one could take away from you.

“Where’s the present?” I conclude with my old question. “I think it’s wiser to leave it be, but I can tell you what it is, so that it might help you once you’re back in the past,” he answers digging two fingers into his eyes to scratch them. “Fine, I’m listening,” I cross my arms and show obtrusive disappointment. “It’s a camera. Chloe’s deceased father’s polaroid camera. As children you were used to calling the camera a red phoenix. You painted it red and outlined wings. That’s all Joyce has told me before she… handed it to me.”

That’s the present. Great, so Chloe had prepared me a gift to my birthday but didn’t ever want to see me again. If I recall correctly, she changed her mood rather quickly, when she saw the “red miracle” note written over my wrist. I won’t deny, she had a pretty moody day already. If Steven had told me the truth, it means she had one too many and died of alcohol intoxication. This means, I shouldn’t have gotten up to her and make her turn off the music. David would’ve taken care of it instead and would’ve noticed her being dangerously drunk. Wrong decisions all over again. Right now, all I can hope for is that it wasn’t painful. God, please!

“So, why don’t you give me the present?” I wonder, but think, he’ll know why. “I’ve listened to your story and I trust you. Guess, polaroid images won’t bode well for you,” he explains and smiles at the same time. I understand and ask my next question, “What about my parents?” strangely he doesn’t wince as I’m asking. “Find your own new way,” he changes the topic.

“Well, that’s not helping…” I cross my arms in front of him and grumble. “I’m afraid, I can’t tell you. Just the following: Both your parents must avoid the Prescott Whatever-Estates. And maybe try to somehow… alter Nathan’s fate,” he responds and waves about with his right hand, but covers his face in pain. Headache incoming. “What-the-eff-happened? Nathan’s dead, I can’t change it,” I ask and deny his suggestion to change someone’s solid brick wall-fate.

“We’re leaving now Arcadia Bay. Again, any last words?” he does it again. “I don’t want to ever see you again,” I look over my left shoulder and watch the frozen sea with my tired eyes. The further we get away from Arcadia Bay, the more life returns to us. Portland is just a stone’s throw away. The sea is looking fine here.

After the very last tree has left the corner of our eye, we spot the sun in the sky, without any sign of a moon covering the sun. The clouds have gone. The weather looks clear. “My radio hasn’t gone crazy, yet.” Steven laughs and turns left. Driving up to Portland’s shore, everything seems vivid and normal. Children playing on the sun-baked street. Using chalk to draw their imaginary streets, smiling faces, butterflies and similar abundant child friendly stories on the ash-gray tarmac.

“You hungry? I’ll get us a snack,” he smiles and blinks, “or you wanna come with me?” He parks his car in a narrow gap inside a row of parked cars. An old man immediately snarls at him after leaving his car, “I don’t know your face! Get lost stranger!” – “Good evening, sir. How do you do? You want me to park somewhere else?” Steven kindly approaches the codger. Overdrawn with wrinkles, I can see anger and xenophobia growing in his eyes. “Shut your trap, you piece of shit. Beat it!”

He aggressively points his shaky finger toward the German. “Sir, there’re children watching us. Act as a model at least in front of them?” – “One more word out of your filthy gullet and,…” he grumbles and grits his teeth to finish with the word, “Filth!” he raises the wooden crane in his other hand. His spare white hair glows in broad daylight.

Time for me to take action. I get back into the car and raise my hand to rewind. My German savior shouldn’t begin quarrels about vanities. I rewind back just before he asks me about a snack.

“Yeah, I could use something to eat. But don’t park your car in that gap over there.” I let him know. “Police waiting around the corner?” he hides behind the steering wheel. “It’s not worth it.” I look to my left and see the old coot smiling at the children playing on the street. “I’m starving,” finally I change the subject. He turns left and leaves the street where the old man had offended him. We are better off without a quarrel.

“Yep, you look like you haven’t eaten anything in a long time. How bad does the head ache?” he worries about me. “I’m good, it gets worse once I try to get into the habit of it, because it’s impossible” I let him know. “Well then, let’s find a more suitable place to park the car. Don’t want you to repeat the crap you had to endure in the hospital” he finds a parking area of an empty diner.

The Big Boats. Really? Portland and boats? You serious? “Looks nice, quiet and cozy in there. Luckily no guests, but opened. Lemme help you,” he scurries to the other side of his car and gives me a hand. “I guess, I’ve relearned how to walk, thanks,” answering him, I trip over an indentation inside the shredded street and fall into him. He embraces me and wildly asks, “Sure you don’t need any help?” he repeats his question. Although I can’t see him, I can imagine the wide grin over his face. “Yeah, don’t make this look any more stupid than it already is, please,” I support myself on his foothold stance.

Doesn’t take much longer than maybe an hour and the sun will drown beneath the horizon. We both cross the street to the restaurant. Unfortunately, there’s no view of the sea from inside the diner, but we take a seat near the windows in the corner booth. An old-school restaurant inspired by… boats. Just like the Two Whales, there are cartoon cutouts of fat boats with way too wide keels. The front has a smile put onto it and the keel itself has two big eyes on the bow.

A young woman offers us a table at the back end of the diner. Both the German and I thank her while she hands us the menu. “Whoa, look at them meals. They must’ve copied from Two Whales.” I tell him astounded. “Apple Sausage Omelette, Paradise Bacon Omelette, Gold Potato Omelette, Morning Glory Waffle…” – “Or they’re being lazy with their own naming schemes,” he shrugs and raises his hand to take his order. “Maybe just a coffee, after your long story… it pretty much killed my hunger,” he responds and orders,

“One big cup of coffee please. Could you maybe do like half coffee half milk? That possible?” – “Uhm sure, no problem. Strong coffee?” The cute fair girl kindly asks. The color scheme of this restaurant is rather blue. White and blue. The mascot cartoon boat is white and blue, the letters are kept blue. This… appears to be more of a child-orientated restaurant. Even the waitress looks like she is in her teens. Earning a little extra money for the studies I suppose. White sports shoes, and… she could rather likely be a model.

“Hello, earth to Max, earth to Max, beep, beep, beep? Will you order something?” Steven waves in front of me. “Uh, yeah… one… eh, Morning Glory Waffle.” I returned to reality. “Extra honey?” with her saccharine supercute voice. “Thanks no, you’re sweet enough,” I say without thinking. Shit, what?

“Thank you, haha.” the young waitress laughs with the German. “It – I mean _it is_ sweet enough, I’m sorry,” I apologize and notice that I’m blushing crimson. “I’ll take it as a compliment, no worries. One coffee with milk and a Morning Glory Waffle – no extra _me_ , haha,” she writes to her little notepad hiding inside her palm.  

She rushes behind the counter. “I’m so sorry but I thought, I’ve seen her face before,” I try to find an excuse. But seriously, I mean it. I’ve seen her face somewhere else. “The way you eyed her… man, either you need someone to cuddle with or…” he ponders mischievously, “you just need rest.” He snickers and covers his mouth to prevent himself from laughing at me.

“Oh, haha, very funny.” I rest my head on the dining table. “I reckon, I’ve seen her face before, too, long ago,” he concludes and softly pets the back of my head. “Well, after all the deep shit I’ve listened to, I’m sure you can do something.” he kindly replies. “I hope, you’re right,” I mumble into the table.

“Max? Oh my, I knew it? Come here!” a familiar voice talks to me from the right. Before I can even look, she has already embraced me, “Aw, long time no see, long time no see!” she increases the pressure with her arms. It’s the waitress. “Juliet?” Now, I remember her face. “Yea, great to see you out of hospital.” she smiles. “Have you been visiting me?” I ask her. Her smile turns into a face of sadness. “She’s lost her memory and only remembers few details from 2013 and that’s that,” Steven butts in. “Oh, you mean before the Inferno?” Juliet asks. “Shhhh!” he immediately stops her.

“Inferno?” I ask her back, but she gets up again. “I’ll be right with you. You’ll get your meal and you – Steven, was it? – I’ll get your weird special coffee,” and rushes into the kitchen. “Huh, nothing special going on… where are the customers?” he wonders but I instantly confront him, “Will you fucking tell me, what the hell is that supposed to mean?” and grab his sleeve. Why trusting him when he’s keeping up being dishonest? What Inferno? To whom?

 “Stop that, no reason to be angry. We’ll talk with Juliet about this, okay?” he removes my weak hand off his sleeve and gently puts it back on the table. “God, I feel every tiniest bone beneath the skin,” he comments the bony condition of my body. Why half coffee and half milk? “Why the weird order? Normal coffee wouldn’t suffice?” I ask him, but don’t expect a normal answer. “I’d call this kindercoffee. My mom was used to making it every morning. It was a child’s invention. A filled mug of yummy milk and a dash of boring stupid coffee. I loved it,” he smiles.

“Hey guys, here’s your meal and here’s your… special coffee,” Juliet hands our orders and sits next to me. “Where are all the costumers?” Steven asks her immediately. “News been babbling all evening about that solar eclipse in Arcadia Bay. Almost all Portland citizens went over to watch the alleged eclipse and the frozen sea. God, Arcadia Bay really is a superstitious hicksville with rainbows and fairytales.” she looks to me, “And you? Remember nothing? At all?” – “Nuh-uh, but Steven’s being dishonest about what happened all day long,” I’m being _honest_ with both of them. Hopefully, he’ll understand. He just stares to the ground – deeply ashamed.

“Ah, right. I remember this dude. Finally. Wasn’t Kate distrusting you, although she had a crush on you? Weren’t you leaving after just a few months of staying?” Juliet unearths another mystery. “Excuse you? Could you please leave her out of this?” he looks up to her with unseeing eyes. Blood leaves his face. He appears to be deadly pale, now. “No surprise, she distrusted everyone after you’ve tried to hit on other girls,” Juliet scowls onto him. “Enough, I’m sick of this shit,” he gets up and leaves almost running.

“Lying piece of…” Juliet doesn’t finish her swearing because I’m rather disappointed about the beef. “You know, what happened to Dana and Victoria? To Nathan and Kate? Is it still in there?” she points at my right temple with her index finger, “In your head? The person you were?” – “Dana looked like a zombie, Victoria cut herself in her arms, Nathan committed suicide, Kate’s gone since thanksgiving 2014, because only God fucking knows why,” I’m fighting with tears. Trying not to keep up the sad thoughts, I’m eating the warm meal. No match to Joyce’s meals. Juliet sighs out loud.

Steven stands outside at the street turning his back to us. One or two cars occasionally pass. He’s a smoker. Wow, I’m impressed. He neither reeked of it nor did I smell anything on his clothes. A dog barks three times. “Aw, is that Bonnie?” Juliet stands up a little to look over my head. The German dude bows and waves a young Golden Retriever to him. No collar around the neck. Steven pets the dog’s head. “Nawww, now I’m feeling bad for guilt-tripping him,” Juliet falls back on her butt and rubs her neck. I continue my meal.

The dog barks again. Quick paws on the floor come closer to our table at the corner booth in the Big Boats. “Uh, who’s a good doggy? Who’s a good girl,” Juliet embraces the Golden Retriever called Bonnie. Bonnie barks once. “She’s a strayer, came out of nowhere. No code, no missing pages. She was just there. The vet supposed that she was around two when I found her,” Juliet talks with her mouth pushed against the soft fur.

I’m done with the meal. Jeez, my stomach doesn’t know what to do with so much food. “Gonna go outside. I think he and I need to clarify some stuff,” I get up and barely manage to keep myself on my feet. Bonnie barks and wags her tail as she sees me. I pet her head with my thin fingers. The smooth fur feels beautiful. Bonnie whimpers while I’m petting her head. Aww, she’s a cutie. I can’t wait to see her again if I ever come back here. A sports car hurries through the street. The smell of gas and warm fresh air feels wonderful on my face. Steven’s hair flutters to the drawn hissing wind of the sports car. He drags another pull on his second cigarette, however looks away as I’m trying to come closer to him.

“You don’t need to turn your head away, I’m used to smokers,” I kindly begin our conversation. He doesn’t answer. “I’m sorry, about what…” – “Don’t give a shit. I was used to it and I still am,” he drags another time on his cigarette and blows the smoke out of the right side of his mouth. “Max,” he overemphasizes my name, “watch out what you’re doing. I’m scared. I’m scared that… _I_ caused this shit, all of it. Fuck… I-I’m getting nervous.” He shivers and stubs his cigarette out.

“Gonna wash my hands and we’ll leave. Juliet isn’t nice to me,” he walks past me. “And your weird ass coffee?” I ask him back. “No time for childhood beverages. Tell her farewell and we’ll go,” he says. “Stop!” I grab his sleeve. “Tell me, what’s bothering you?” I ask looking up to him, his head covers the sun and burns his hair which makes me squint.

“It’s the exact same day. Two years ago… and we were sitting inside a diner in a corner booth in broad daylight, and all of a sudden, someone turns his back on me… A-fucking-gain! Now look at Juliet. Blaming the shit out of me all over again. I miss Kate, I noticed how much I fucking miss her,” his eyes water, albeit his voice stays calm and stable.

I nod and search for words in my totally confused head, “Look, if it’s that… I’m going to fix this. You understand? You trust me?” I grab both his bony wrists. His breath accelerates, the sweet known scent of cigarettes leaves his mouth and enters my nose. As much as we both miss our poor Kate, as much do I miss Chloe and my new mistake of leaving her alone when she was dangerously drunk.

“Max, I’m scared. Once you leave this…,” Steven stops here and swallows. I see the pain in his face. He winces but continues his thought with new, other words, “You told me your very long story while we were sitting in the rain. I believe every word you said. I felt the deep pain and the truth. And after all, I feel something else and I know it has something to do with me. Very deep, I’m certain it has also to do with Nathan’s death. Look, what if…,” one tear drops from the brink of his jawline and he shuts both his wet eyes.

“What if your other ego focused the photograph of the butterfly on the bucket and left Chloe alone on the hill near the windmill? What if Chloe was still there and Max’s alternate ego didn’t manage to leave that place. What if another reality sheered off? I don’t know what the fuck I’m saying, but I think the same about you. What if your ego has other alternative personalities? What if…,” I interrupt him there.

“Hey… stop it. It’s okay. I didn’t mean to be rude. I regret my behavior toward you. I’m sorry, okay? Please don’t lose it, because I need you.” I grab his wrists as tight as possible. He responds by grabbing both my shoulders and hugging me… very… urgh, he’s strong. “Don’t break me into half, pretty please,” I moan. “Still, I sense some sort of deeper pain. Maybe this day was too much for me,” he pulls a tissue and wipes his nose. “Should we ask Juliet more about the past?” I ask him, although it should be up to me. “I don’t think that’s a sane idea,” he clears his throat and throws the used tissue in the trash can next to the entrance.

“An important question,” he shakes with every limb of his body. “What if you fall asleep, and your alternate ego returns. What’ll I do with her? I… I don’t know how to behave,” he almost cries. “What did you do to her? Is there something you hiding from me?” I’m worried about the way he asks me. A cold shiver runs down my spine. “Never mind, just an inane thought. Stupid me,” Steven snivels and heads back inside the diner.

I follow him. Well, that was a crazy dialogue. I wish to unearth all those mysteries about Nathan and Steven himself. There’s something inside of me telling me, he’s up to no good. But I’m fed up with distrusting wrong people after over two years of trying to rescue Arcadia Bay along with Chloe. Whatever ruins Arcadia Bay… the next thing which will hit it might cause a bigger calamity. What next? A meteor? A big robo-dinosaur plowing through the city? The big robo-dinosaur Sigbert Dongle.

Glad Steven brought me away from Arcadia Bay. Another factor that might render my subconscious saner. Who knows, maybe I can convince Chloe and her parents in leaving Arcadia Bay. On the contrary I’ve tried to convince my own parents to not leave when I was a toddler… Max, what have you done?

Juliet is currently cleaning the counter. Steven drinks his cold fake coffee without daring to look at us. I walk to her and whisper, “What about him? What is he hiding? What about Nathan? I merely remember the fact that I was being bullied.” Juliet stops and leaves the cleaning rag on the counter, “Bullied? Victoria had all reason to be pissed at you. Taylor and Courtney were usually kissing her ass and were trying to impress her. There was actually more reason to be afraid of you. But bullying… if you think so. Guess, this dude over there was right.” She points at him. She continues cleaning the counter.

“I liked you, Max, really. But in the end, you weren’t the nicest gal at Blackwell. You weren’t the reason for many people to leave, but Mister Jefferson’s evil doings. Kind of ironic to despise quirky Miss Caulfield when she’s being mistreated and abused. And for whatever bloody reason, the Prescott family managed to go out of this crap without any sort of penalty or bad word on TV or in the newspaper. Every fucking mean or bad word had been silenced with money. They bought equipment and the whole fucking police… you believe that garbage? Long story short, that was my reason to leave that eerie city behind.”

I can’t stop gaping. Close your mouth, God dammit, Max! Hell, I assume things are worse than I had anticipated. “Brook was on my side. At least that’s what I can remember,” I try to remember my first day back in 2013. “Yeah, she had a crush on Warren and somehow managed to get him. I think I once heard him saying, ‘Oh, Max is such a cutie.’ And he meant it. Your actions have changed his weird impression about you.” Juliet’s voice becomes more and more depressed. Whatever she’s telling me right now, it’s something neither Real-Max nor Steven has told me.

“I’m sorry to end this right here, but I’ve gotta leave. Really, I’m sorry for all the bullshit that happened back then, but I’ll do better,” I get up from the barstool and support my body on the wooden cartoon cutout boat in front of the counter. Juliet doesn’t look at me. “So, you gonna head back to hospital?” with a harsh voice. “I think, the hospital ain’t no place for me to stay,” I smile at her. She doesn’t return the look and sighs out loud.

“How much do I owe you?” I ask her although I don’t carry any money. “Nothing. I quit this bitch of a job,” she tosses the cleaning rag on the bottom. Accidentally she hit Bonnie’s tail. She startles and whimpers. “Oh my God, sorry I didn’t mean to! Bonnie, my golden cutie” Juliet darts to her and hugs her. Bonnie grumbles and licks her ear right her. Steven gets up and pets Bonnie’s head. “Day to day, my boss… fuck the only reason for me to stay is Bonnie. I couldn’t bear leaving her behind with this awful boss,” Juliet’s voice breaks. “Where are your parents?” the German whispers with his dark voice.

“Seattle, why you ask?” she responds. In the meantime, Bonnie slipped on her back to be tickled on her belly. I can hear the fur brushing through the gaps of Juliet’s thin fingers. Her boss does what with her? I don’t have the guts to ask. “Wanna come with us?” He kindly asks her. “But Bonnie,” she returns the look. Her face is red everywhere. “No code, no collar. Maybe there’s no owner… or at least no owner who misses her,” he shrugs and smiles as he watches Bonnie’s joy for all the tender petting that she’s getting.

This was the very first time, that I didn’t alter a decision. This was Juliet’s and Steven’s decision about taking a stray or leaving her behind. To me, it’s okay, but I don’t like any of the recent happening. I’m just glad, once I’m back in 2013 to readjust my life. If all my decisions are chosen correctly, I’ll end up in Portland’s psychiatry. First thing I’ll do… give Kate a call, because I’ll rekindle our friendships. All the broken friendships, that I might had caused. Gosh, my brain is a mess.

We leave the diner. Juliet quickly hid somewhere around the toilets to change her clothes. A pretty weird way to quit a job, but after all she seems to understand some of what’s going on around her and Steven. Bonnie follows us like a good dog as though there really was no one Bonnie was missing. Where did she come from?

Reaching Steven’s car, I ask Juliet to stay outside until I will have fallen asleep. She doesn’t get it but agrees and heads to Portland’s harbor for an evening stroll. Steven will accompany her later on, but I know that the dimension will collapse and nothing here will ever have an effect on anything of the past, just the current I. Leaving the hospital was just a time saver to prevent me from being treated with hardcore medicine. I don’t know how this dimension works entirely, but I’ll do my best. I reckon that if Steven hadn’t helped me escape my sickroom in Arcadia Bay, I would’ve been in much more trouble.

I close the door of his car. We sit inside watching the calm sea of Portland. The water glistening when being gently touched by the sun. It’s about time. Time to naturally fall asleep and head back to a place which I’ll have to tide up some more. “So, once you’re away, this all could be… over? All this. This…,” he pauses here, “our presence? It’s literally all in vain?” His heart pounds beneath his t-shirt. Almost leaping out of his mouth. “Is there anything, that I should know before I go?” I ask him.

“Try to help Victoria, Nathan… Dana… Kate… me,” his heart pounds a million miles per hour. “All good, will do,” I reassure him. “I miss you, Max… I was so scared to see you again today and you are too nice to me. I don’t deserve to be treated that way,” he covers his face. “In the past, I’ll get the red phoenix and maybe I can unearth some mysteries,” I answer smiling at the same. “Farewell,” he barely manages to say this word. “Goodbye for now, so long,” I recite one of P.O.D.’s album’s songs. “All of this crap has made me really tired. It’s better for me to go now,” I finish the thought.

I slowly close my eyes and try to get rest. Steven doesn’t even dare turning the radio on, doesn’t make any noise or talks to himself. Nothing of it.

 

* * *

 

Get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head it hurts so much get out of my head  get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head  get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head  get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head

Get out of my head get out of my head  get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head  get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head  get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head god what have I done get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head  get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head  get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head  get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head get out of my head  

I scream in deep pain. A searing stitch all around my skull. Blood shoots through my veins. I feel every fiber of my body quivering. Everything shakes. It’s dark. My eyes are suffocated inside a void of endless shades of blackness. Each new beat inside my ears screams like a sharp voice and rattles while sucking fresh blood back and forth into my body. I wish I could breathe faster to compensate the lack of air, but there’s only a weak wind of breath left through my nostrils.

“I’m here, oh my God, please wake up!” An almost dead voice shouts immediately in front of me. It’s a male’s voice. He’s touching my arms and desperately tries to shake me awake. In the wake of his shaking, all my arms prickle. My eyes open although darkness remains. “Wake up, please… don’t you do this to me!” he cries. A dog barks and howls. “Oh, God please don’t do this to me!” he pushes his hand onto my chest to sense my heartbeat.

Color returns, I regain control of some body parts. My jaw opens. Finally, I sense my lungs and suck fresh air into my shallow husk of nothingness. I breathe more rapidly, the heartbeat decelerates. It’s him… the fiend, the evil. The last person on earth that I remembered. The last person on earth that would move his ass over to me and save me.

“I thought, I’d lose you,” he hugs me. His tears drop on my neck. “Where am I?” I ask him. “Portland and… as you can see, the harbor right in front of us.” He removes the exuding sweat from his forehead. Another familiar face joins us. “Hell, what happened?” Juliet opens the door to my right and caresses my head. The dog on the backseat whimpers with no end in sight. “Shush, Bonnie. All good,” Juliet uses the other hand to calm the dog behind me.

“You know who I am?” I glower at him with a dark voice. He’s frightened. “What is this supposed to mean,” Juliet asks me. “I know what you did to me,” I say to him without answering her. “I think you two need some more time alone. Holler if something’s wrong,” she nervously leaves the car without closing the door behind.

“I thought, I’d never see you again. But now you are back,” he manages to tell me. “You were the last guy that I used to know, who’d move his ass to Arcadia Bay. I knew this because I remember what you did to me,” I frown at him. “Why did you order me to escape the hospital with you?” He wants to understand. “Let’s put it that way. I knew that _Max_ would endure seeing you again, but _I_ … _I_ on the other hand could’ve gone insane.” I enigmatically explain. “But… but you’re doing alright, do you?” He asks again. “Remember the fucking seizure one minute ago?” I silence him.

Juliet comes back to us. “You guys doing okay?” with her worried face. “I remember everything,” I tell her. Steven turns the engine on. Juliet looks at him with gloomy eyes. “You remember what happened to Nathan?” he exhaustedly asks another question. “You’ve done well. You didn’t tell _her_. She shouldn’t know any of it. She can go away and continue her futile attempts of fucking with Chloe’s life,” I tell him. Juliet has entered the car and buckles up. Bonnie wags her tail into her face which looks funny. I chuckle.

“Let’s head to Seattle. Emilie… I mean Aury and you should make an acquaintance. Hopefully, she’ll forgive me for what I’ve done. I’ve never told her about it,” he mouths. “Hopefully, my other self stops being a douche. Give me the damn red phoenix, already,” I order him. “I’m sorry, Max. I’ve tossed it into the ocean when you zonked out… after the hospital escape… you… you passed out for some time,” he replies.

“What’s the red phoenix?” Juliet asks, but she asks something else that crushes my heart after a long time of not being able to feel anything at that painful spot, “I’ve seen this necklace before…”


	16. Promising insanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the doomed place of her past. Max will now face the second rewind of Tuesday.

**Chapter 16 – Promising insanity  
Theme Song: The James Gang – Ashes the rain and I**

Recollect your thoughts again. Where are you and what day is it? Inner checklist:

-Look what you can find out about Dana, although you can’t change this day.  
-It should be Tuesday again.  
-Chloe will have written some text messages on your phone.  
-You will meet Mark at the gas station.  
-I don’t remember when and where this timeline has set its checkpoints, it’ll hurt when I cross them whatsoever.  
-Get the red phoenix!

Music, darkness and Kate’s thumping on the door. Kate? “Kate!” I scream and remove the mattress leaning against the door. “Pick up the phone by the Notwist” has resumed. I’m definitely back on Tuesday. I’ll have to change something to make Wednesday possible. Which in this case means, getting Chloe away from too much alcohol and Kate… how do I act with her? I must rekindle her friendship with others, especially with the German Siegbert Dongle or whatever I used to calling him back on the same day.

Kate beams as I unlatch the door and allow her to enter my maximus… the abyss. I glomp her. “Wow, glad I’m here,” Kate chuckles surprised. “None of this is real, why? None of this will have happened. Ever. Why?” I whisper, but not to her. “What?” Kate understandably asks back. “Nothing, please know… feel… sense that I’m going to have a pretty weird day,” I embrace her even more. All muscle power pushes against her solid and alive body.

Meanwhile hugging her, I see her other self leaving my door. The current Kate I’m hugging fades away and scatters into million shards which dissolve in midair. I wish there was someone telling me, “Just a simulation.” But in this case, it is, “Just a very bad dream which is real.”

That hug never existed. I made the decision to ignore her. Next event happened inside the girls’ restroom. She opened the shower curtain, because she knew something in her gut. All of it… in vain. I can’t strike on a reasonable idea that may change her fate. The fate of distrusting people because of my dumb actions. “I’m so sorry,” I tell the leaving ghost of Kate. The actual Kate, who wasn’t opened the door to help me.

I return into my pitched black room and inspect my phone. I can’t really remember Chloe’s messages. Once I’ll see her I don’t know what to do at all. Maybe I’ll cry, maybe I’ll just give her a hug. What the hell… She’ll trust me and I should be capable of altering her fate by using my pulse power at the correct given time. Is the same possible with Kate? Strangely enough it was always possible with Chloe and she remembered regardless of past or future, however Evan didn’t remember anything as I went backwards in time. Could it be that I can just move and displace along with someone in time, because my time alterations are going to cause their deaths? And Evan was never supposed to die? I hope, I’ll come up with some glorious idea to save Kate too.

I inspect my arm first, since I can’t remember my notes:

-dana sad  
-pulse-powers  
-letters of despair  
-how i leave hospital?  
-chloe at vortex-party  
-kate vortex-party  
-student from abroad  
-william (what happened?)  
-windmill?  
-red miracle?  
-visions of other lives  
-other’s thoughts  
-visions of other lives  
-other’s thoughts  
-burning horizon

Well… some of those points are irrelevant now. I don’t know Dana’s reason to be sad. William’s death, sigh, I guess I’ll pass that one. Burning Horizon – should be clear what it means. Same goes for the windmill. Red miracle – could it be that it has anything in common with the red phoenix? Leaving the hospital – a good thing it worked due to Steven’s help. And now I’m back here in Silent Bay, I mean Arcadia Hill.

Chloe wrote the same stuff again:

“max, where the hell are you? are you ok? nevermind, i understand your situation. take your time and i’ll wait at our windmill…”

And the next note too:

“oh i totally forgot you lost all your memory. i’ll be chilling by the swings and wait there for you instead”

I’m feeling sick. I think the first checkpoint should be imminent. I’d better head to the girls’ restroom again. Being reset to the exact same day also means that my body odor has returned. Oh my, Teddy. Almost forgot you, little buddy. Head torn off and… oh shit… his eyes are both attached to his head. The polaroid rewind had worked. That means… I must hurry to Chloe! All our fate could’ve been altered, or better, or worse. I don’t fricking know.

I grab my stuff, towel, boring ass clothes which could’ve possibly been used once and bolt to the bathroom. None of the shower stalls are used. Alone – good for me. Warm water around my head strengthens my mind. Quick shower my ass. Jeez, hurry. Clean as a new pin without wasting another ten minutes. Kate hasn’t arrived, yet. Whatever, I’ve got to be fast – I quickly change my clothes and scurry out of the dorms.

Outside, on the yard, Dana’s feeding squirrels. Wasn’t Samuel supposed to do that? Did I miss some clues? Crumbling dried up pieces of bread in her hands, she carefully drops those on the lawn, squirrels surround her and happily nosh their generous breakfast. Dana taps to her right, inviting me to sit down next to her. I don’t know about her fate, but Kate’s and Chloe’s were bad enough by all means. I can’t save her this particular day. Tomorrow maybe.

“Hey, sweetheart,” she smiles at four squirrels hopping in front of our feet. “You mean me or…” I laugh but she already interrupts me, “‘Course I mean you, Max. Aw, look at them. They look so hungry.” That’s Dana, the girl I remember. Only thing left is her dancing on the bench, which sounds rather odd.

“Nice, that you came to me. I could use some company.” she empties her right hand and claps off the remaining bread crumbs. She looks at me. Warm wind blows on our faces, the little squirrels’ fur curls to the wind. Dana’s hair flutters back – a look of pleasure in her eyes. “What’s bothering you?” I want to know. “Bad things have happened. I actually don’t want to talk about it, but do I have to?” Dana replies and claps her hands again to remove some leftover crumbs. Another gust of wind blows and whistles around our ears.

“Look at those cuties, look how happily they’re crunching their meal – so adorable!” she bows down to watch them munching bread crumbs. Yeah, she’s right. Watching their tiny mouths rapidly open and close… sure it’s saccharine. Reminds me of Kate’s little bunny.

“Please come to me if you need someone to talk to? We need each other more than ever in those dark days.” I get up and pat her shoulder and stroke it a little. Damn she’s beautiful. What had happened to her before all this crap has happened? “Here, I want you to have this,” she roots for something inside her pocket. Then she hands me a silver key. “I want you to know that you can visit me no matter what time, no matter why – any time. Just… take it, just in case,” and she waves to tell me I should take it.

“You can bet your life on it!” I smile and tuck away her dorm room key. I’m certain that’s what her key might open. “You’re wonderful, thanks,” she hugs me around the belly. “Gosh, your stomach rumbles like an earthquake. Get yourself something to eat, sweetie!” Dana looks up to me. “What time is it?” she looks confused. I grab Chloe’s phone and… “8:26am, I’ll get… something to eat,” I answer her.

“Okay, I’ll head back to my room and read. Come visit me this evening, maybe? I need someone,” Dana asks and I say yes. I smile at her and wave goodbye. I know that this conversation has never happened, but I need to focus on something specific. Something even more important – myself. I head to the bus stop. Waiting for the bus, I call Chloe.

“Max, what the hell happened? What day is it? Why did…” the first words crackling from her phone’s speaker. Chloe has picked up immediately. “Whoa, whoa, cut me a break, I was about to come to our secret hideout – the windmill,” I wince after hearing her voice again. The bus arrives. What time is it? 8:30am. Great that means…

 --------  
A chime echoes in my head. I change my position to a remote place.  
\--------

Ouch, bad headache has returned. Back in my room, back in the dorms. Damn, I totally forgot about the checkpoints. I hardly remember those. What set them into this timeline? Anyway, let’s get going. Kate and Mister Dangle Dongle have a date with me. They’ll expect me at Kate’s door. I should just head to not-Warren’s-but-Steven’s car and wait for them to arrive. I forged this day, however not everything stays the same. First person I’ll change is Chloe. Second person is Kate. Third Dana. And all along I should watch out for my parents.

I get up from my couch and change clothes. Boring just like always. Teddy must wait. Sorry friend, can’t make every friend a top priority. Victoria’s door shakes within the frame. Poor door, I know her music stinks, however she has her ways of coping with Blackwell’s recent history. Maybe I should look around whether each detail has remained the same. God knows, I repeated Monday twice and all things were exactly the same up until then.

I’ve reached the boys’ dorms. Weird, the blood stains are still on the floor but both police officers have gone. Light glows into the corridor and almost burns through my tired eyes. Shit, I’m getting used to my weak body. Reaching the German’s door, I can’t believe it – he changed the quote to something rather German looking: “hilf mir”. I pick Chloe’s phone to research a proper translation. There are only two words, so it should be a no-brainer: help me. Whoa, this is too creepy… I’ve got to go away from here. What’s going on?

Heading outside, I hear birds tweeting, the grass swishing and bending to the warm winds of the approaching fall. The sun gleams through pine trees. A subdued light burning across Blackwell. I dart to the parking lot and smash into somebody else. I wish, I could use my rewind powers again merely avoiding stupid clumsy happenings as these.

“Max, you alright?” it’s Warren whom I ran into. Damn, I hit my face. “Oh damn, I hit your eyes?” he crouches down to help me get up. “Warren, what are you doing here so early?” I rub my brow. This is going to become a wide bruise. “Brooke has sent me to get some books. She doesn’t want to stay at Blackwell after… you know what happened,” Warren supports my back and almost entirely helps me getting up back on my feet. “Thanks, old savior,” I accidentally call him.

“Without her drone, I never would’ve been able to track… the situation,” he explains. Right, I almost forgot, that Brooke’s drone flew higher because of his adapter. “What are you doing here?” he asks worried. “I don’t know,” I evade the question, “I want things to be better, than they were before.” I say. “I’m really sorry, but I must hurry. Brooke expects me in half an hour in Portland? Wanna hang out with us?” he runs off and quickly turns back. “Already have a date, sorry. Maybe tomorrow,” I respond covering my eyes since the sun has made its way above Blackwell and blinds me. Hope, you will stay there for the rest of the day.

The parking lot has remained the same. At least something positive. Kate and Steven are talking to each other with the nonexistent Max. I cross my arms watching their weird three head conversation, albeit one of them is blatantly missing. Meanwhile talking and walking down the stairs, Kate is the first of _both_ realizing that I’ve changed position. She nudges – my initially self-coined – Alfred Siegbert Dongle to change his attention.

“Well, how did you? Max? What?” she looks back and forth. Both cannot realize the sudden vanishing of my former self. It will all be gone and forgotten after all. For now, they will behave oddly and everything is going to be different after trespassing the invisible time stamps – which I’m used to calling checkpoints. Jeez, seeing the two years younger Steven makes me feel sorry for him. Uncertain about his new surroundings, unconfident with our language, creeping the hell out of a girl as I am. I, the quirky bony weirdo searching for a cure in a hicksville of rainbows and fairytales.

Getting in the car, nobody says something. I’m asking Kate on the backseat again, “What about Nathan? What happened the night, when…” Steven butts in, “Stop, please don’t talk about this,” and I see his shirt pounding. This happening seemed to have caused a problem to him. Kate doesn’t even push a word through her teeth. She doesn’t even try. I know that after the Diner event, she’ll be pretty pissed off at me for tearing her apart from her new foreign friend. My choices, my faults and dreadful repercussions.

For the rest of our ride through Arcadia Bay we kept up a sinister silence. After half of our trip, Steven determined turning on “The Dear Hunter with In Cauda Venenum” on his car’s stereo. The song doesn’t fit at all and appears to be too powerful. Luckily, we’ve already arrived.

Heat soaring up into the car makes us sweat. This day wasn’t that hot if I remember correctly. “Oh man, I’m starving,” Kate laughs after climbing out of the German’s heated-up car. “Everything fine, Steven?” she asks, this time without being interrupted by him. With his gloomy face, he looks at her and nods with a bleak smile. Did I change 2013 by escaping the hospital in 2015? How comes, everything became so obviously different on Tuesday while anything else on Monday stayed the same?

I spot Mark’s car driving into the gas station on the other side of the road. Well, it doesn’t matter anyway. I can hurry to the windmill without any bigger consequence. Kate and Steven again will talk to another clone of my former self. I cross the sun-baked street on which no car has passed the last two minutes. All along, this town seems to shrink. Where are all residents? Where did everybody go?

I’ve entered a pathway which leads to the shore. Rippling water in the far distance, glistening as jewelry and fading color beyond the horizon. The dirty but sandy soil under my feet. Someone grabs my wrist and turns me around. “Gosh, it’s you!” Mark has followed me. I flinch and take a few steps back, “Oh hey, Mark…” I startle because his sunglasses still creep the hell out of me. “Excuse me, I didn’t mean to scare you. I had the feeling you were around,” he explains. “Sorry, gotta go, will see a friend,” and I’ve run off. I still have his number somewhere… on my arm or so. Nothing will stop me from seeing Chloe on time. I will not disappoint her.

I’m unsure if my mind adjusted itself or if it’s my brawn which has made its way back into my body. Either way, I’m not as exhausted after reaching the shore. The water isn’t frozen. A good start. Well, up we go to the lighthouse. Our ancient rundown windmill. Sad thing it is falling apart. Who maintains that thing? Nonetheless, the lighthouse is a fair way off. The pathway has dried up and all mud has turned to dirt. For a fraction of a second, I assumed to have seen a doe through the sun’s light rays. But it was just my imagination going wild.

I’ve reached the top with my eyes fixed to the ground. Before I can even say, “I’m sorry I can’t look at you,” my head bangs into something. Chloe has run into me and embraced me tightly. That sweet scent of cigarettes, her clothing, the sound of her breath whistling through her mouth.

“My life flashed before my eyes,” her voice sounds different but just the sound is enough. I slowly return the hug with my head pushed against her chest. “What did we do?” she asks however it doesn’t sound addressed to me. “I need the red phoenix,” I push those words out. “I saw myself fighting against… death,” she remembers her own last Tuesday. “I thought, it was a dream. But this dream repeats,” she says and lets me go. She heads to the bench. No alcoholic breath has reached my nose, yet.

“What the fuck happens?” she stares at the sea. “I need the red phoenix, Chloe,” I repeat my request. She turns around but keeps sitting. “What the hell are you doing to this place?” her eyes turn red. “You are the only person that I can currently change, however all the other things…” I need a break here to draw another deep breath, “Jesus, I don’t know what to do about them. I don’t know anything at all. My first clue is the red phoenix. It made you happy seeing the red miracle note. Then, you became mad at me because I lied to you.” Chloe gets up from the bench and approaches me.

“Everything here right now, is a fucking loop. I’ve heard your words and everything before that bullshit. Say something that makes me believe this garbage!” she raises her fist. I can break her fury, no problem, “You had received a phone call, it made you upset and then you told me, ‘I still love her’.” She lowers her fist. Never would she hit me, not after all that she has seen and felt.

“I am Rachel out of the stories and if you still believe that I’m lying to you, you must hand me the red phoenix,” I persist on my older thought. “So, do you even know what that is?” she crosses her arms. I don’t even dare looking at her face. It crushes my heart already seeing her all alive like nothing ever happened to her. “William’s old camera. We painted it red and drew outlines of a phoenix,” I squint because I expect her to scream. “First it was a bird and then we realized that it looked more like a phoenix. I’m happy you remember. And I understand,” she turns away after saying this.

She crouches down and then sits on the dirty ground next to the bench. Sniveling twice she grabs her pot from her pocket and snips it over the brink of the cliff. I assumed, that Kate and the German would behave strangely, but she’s totally on another level. Some birds leave the treetops. The leaves rustle. Some of them come undone and float to the ground like colored feathers. One of those gently lands on Chloe’s hair. While accompanying her, I remove the leaf and sit down on the bench next to her.

She looks up to me. “Will I die today? Will this day go on and on?” she asks. What to say about that? Yes, she will die and it makes me sick. Her death is inevitable on another layer of complexity. She looks sad. Like a puppy begging for some food. Maybe I should get down to the dirty soil so that she can look down to me. I sit myself next to her. Her right leg touches my left one. Dang, I’m not good at sitting cross-legged. How does she do this?

“It’s my fault you died,” I looking up to her I change my gaze to the sea. Cannot bear looking at her this much while talking about her imminent death. Am I some kind of prophet? I wish I could tell her differently. Another strong gust of wind blows at us making me shiver. The waves surge up against the brittle rocks. I think a drip of water has reached my arm. I lick to taste the salt, and it is… normal water. “Ew, gross, didn’t know you like that taste,” Chloe says. “It is raining…” I say totally baffled.

Behind us, clouds are coming closer. Some more drops fall on our bodies. Now, I’m really cold. “Let’s run,” Chloe suggests and scurries together with me down the pathway. The dirty ground has turned into a mess of mud and ooze. One time I’ve fallen on my butt and Chloe has picked me up again. But at long last, we’ve reached her car and got in.

“Music?” she puts her index finger on the power button. I whimper an almost silent yes and she pushes the button. “CRR is back with another track for ya. I feel young when I say this. I listened this song up and down when I was around thirteen; weird times – the seventies. A little hint for you folks: ‘The James Gang’,” the moderator on the radio talks to us. Chloe cranks it up. “Mind if I cry?” she asks. “Why not?” I respond and close my eyes.

The rain merely teems down onto her windshield, almost drowning the song. The musician playing the guitar does a nice job. Chloe grips my wrist. I myself, keep my eyes shut. What a bitch of a day. I’m astounded by the amount of random changes this day undergoes. I thought to have understood the rules of time but I didn’t. Everything is an alternate capsule in itself. Nothing makes any sense whatsoever. Normally my head would pound of this, but I don’t give a bloody damn any longer.

My phone vibrates in Chloe’s pocket. Guess, mom has written me again. All the same text, provided I remember all of its details. “In my dream you’ve bailed on me. You made me see things that broke my heart. But today, I woke up with different memories in my mind. You’ve tried to stay here for me, in this hellhole called Arcadia Bay? What did you change?” Chloe sobs and grabs my wrist even tighter. “It’s not supposed to rain,” I say looking through the windshield. Hundreds of gallons of water rippling on the scratched-up windshield making their way down to the hood and finally to the bottom.

“I don’t wanna die,” she nervously pets my arm with her thumb. The rest of her hand’s grasp remains firm. “Thanksgiving next year – and Kate is going to be next. I set your final fate,” I deduce and look out of the right window. “God, no,” Chloe whimpers uttering a painful sigh. Her tight grip starts to slowly hurt around my hand but I say nothing. I sense her heartbeat, there’s nothing more beautiful I could possibly ask for.

“Your hand’s so cold,” her voice almost cracks at the end. Maybe we should really run away from Arcadia Bay. Search for Rachel or so. Maybe this place is cursed. “Let’s run away,” I suggest. “Where to? Tell me?” she doesn’t understand. “You love Rachel, we should go looking for her,” I explain. “You know, this is not about who’s loved or not, it is about who I thought to have feelings for, it is about the person who mimicked her. It’s you. You wrote the letters,” she gives in and releases her tight grip around my arm. The rain keeps crashing from the sky.

“Last Tuesday you were rather moody and… as you read the red miracle note on my wrist, you were delighted for quite a while. What’s wrong? Please tell me,” I’m begging her for more information about things that I couldn’t find out yet. “I received a letter. A piece of a poem. I won’t tell you, because it’s incomplete. I know you’ve composed every fucking word, but it hurts so much knowing it’s not Rachel’s love that I got,” her voice goes up and down.

“The letter before that told something else. I lied to you about it. I lied to you and I am so fucking sorry for this,” Chloe removes a lash out of her eye. “Your letter ordered me to dye my hair red. Regardless of what the other Maxes will think when they arrive here, they’ll all know that something’s wrong. I believed this bullshit. I believe the bullshit from all your letters. Every shitty line indicates your insanity,” she has almost run out of breath. “I saw myself dying and relive this day a second time to fucking **bide** my bloody death. I’m shocked that it’s I who’s increasingly going insane,” she concludes grimly.

“What am I gonna do,” she whimpers covering her face with both her hands. “Dana entrusted me with her key to her dorm room. She’s not looking too great. It feels good being trusted. This silver key may vanish after my next checkpoint. Whenever I disappear, my next place to wake up again is the junkyard,” I show her Dana’s key. Tangible, visible, tactile and existent. Soon, it will be visually devoured by this day’s fate. My own creation.

“Dana? What’s with her? Is she okay?” she asks worrying about her. “You knew her?” I want to know. “Long story. I also made some experiences with Nathan,” she lets me know. “Dana doesn’t look good. I don’t know what is going to happen to her in the future, though,” I’m honest with her. “But I think, it’s not too late to take action for anything,” my positivity sucks, but it’s all I can do.

Chloe loudly exhales through her nose and changes her view through the left window and regards the rain flowing down the pane. She slams against her radio. It surrendered without a fight. “So, what now?” she’s upset again. “Go back home and acquire the red phoenix,” I suggest. “For what?” she retorts waving about with her right hand. “Forgot my birthday?”

Without comment, she has started the engine. With wheels squealing we are off back to her home. During our ride back to Cedar Avenue, she slammed the radio on again and tuned in some metal. Not my taste, but next to her, I can relate to her taste. “The red phoenix was our friendship’s identity. Then, you came back to show my father’s burning car and suddenly, phoenix began to make sense,” she talks aimlessly to no one. I think she hasn’t grasped the situation yet.

“So, here we are. Wanna come with me?” she asks with one foot already being out of her car. I shake my head. “When you are back, tell me what happened after Monday, since you’ve never actually told me anything about it,” I say while she’s shutting the door behind. Whew, the rain won’t stop. There she is, bolting to the Prices’ door. She forgot her phone – I mean my phone. I grab it. Gotcha back, buddy. Am I talking to my own cellphone, really? How deep have I fallen? Cool, I’ve smiled about that stupid thought. Sanity kicking in?

More clouds mingle with the silver ones. Hundreds of shades of darkness above us. A thunder, the clouds flash up once. The swift light flashing upon the country pulsates through the bottom. Raindrops on the windshield erratically changing direction as the wind changes. I spot Chloe’s window; a light has been turned on. Her shadow cast against the curtains. Perfect photo opp. In the depths of my battered bag, I found you – my polaroid camera. Eye to viewfinder and stay calm Chloe – boom, can’t wait to pin this somewhere on my wall.

I tuck away my camera and turn the radio back on. A crackling white noise resounds. Are you cereal… this quote is so much better when Chloe’s around. Anyway, why is there no signal? I switch the mode to her stereo and… there she is. She leaves the door with the gift in her hands. She hops in her car squeezing her hair drenched back. Thick wet streaks of hair soaked up with water. She shivers and hands me the present. Before I can say anything else she does something beautiful.

Chloe comes closer to me and kisses my cheek and hugs me, “Welcome home, Max.” she seemingly recites her own words from my story. She believes me. A pleasant start to begin with. I return the embracement and feel some of her hair lying on my neck. Some drops run down on my back. Normally I’d get goosebumps all over, because it’s cold, but this time it’s senses beautiful on my skin. “I’m feeling drunk and drowsy,” Chloe whispers with a little stammer in her voice. “And it gets worse,” she concludes.

\--------  
A chime rings in my head. I sense a sting in my neck. Poison floods my veins.  
\--------

“Max, are you there?” Chloe wakes me up. “The junkyard angel,” I remember the vision of Rachel being almost consciously buried alive. “The what?” Chloe’s heart rapidly pounds beneath her tank top. “The rain hasn’t stopped and I’m feeling worse the more time passes. It took me forever to get here. And I’m drunk as shit,” the rain crashes on the ceiling of the little concrete den within the junkyard.

“Here’s your present,” she hands me the opened present box. Inside, William’s camera with some cute child paintings all over its plastic shroud. I raise it and say, “Thanks, Chloe.” The drawing of the phoenix – magnificent. “Well, back in the day we totally kicked ass with our drawings,” I tell her while inspecting the polaroid camera in my hands.

“So, what will you do with it?” I see the big question mark on her face. I look through the viewfinder and almost crapped my pants. “What the fuck?!” I scream and drop the camera. The red phoenix falls. “Hey, watch it! You know how much value this has to me,” Chloe catches the camera in midair. She frowns at me. “Watch for yourself!” I point at it. Chloe grumbles and looks around with it through the viewfinder. “What? Nothing!” she says with the red phoenix pushed against her right eye. “Give it back then,” I wave her to me. “Don’t drop!” she warns me again. Whew, draw a good breath and use the viewfinder again.

I see duplicates of us. They are arguing. Chloe with her quid pro quo game; her drinking all along, broad daylight, my bandaged leg and the revolver on the table. “I see us both. It’s our yesterday’s conversation. Our fight. You keep drinking and smoking pot,” I summarize what I see. “You dreaming, aren’t you?” Chloe sits down next to me and curiously watches my every move.

I look to her and she’s not visible through the viewfinder. I want to touch Chloe’s shoulder but I nudge my other self’s shoulder instead and she startles. My yesterday’s ghost looks at me through the viewfinder. Accidentally, I hit the release and flash. It didn’t blind my other self, but Chloe in front of me. “Hello? Warning? What the hell are you seeing,” in the corner of my left eye, I see her covering her face. “I really am the devil,” I say and I mean it.

“What?” Chloe winces next to me because of being blinded. “She’s drawing the gun. Chloe, I am at gunpoint,” I stand up afraid. “So, I didn’t hit you?” she slowly regains balance and looks up to me. Through the viewfinder, I see Chloe shooting at me. “Shit, I’ve gotta do something,” I dart to her position. That Chloe shoots my other self yet another time and hits me. I’m… she is fatally wounded. The ghost Chloe startles and chucks her gun. “You’ve killed me,” I tell the real Chloe. After hearing this, she vomits.


	17. Why, of beyond all my eleven senses, can I not reach you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max has discovered the red phoenix's purpose and altered an iteration of another world. Her friend Chloe, however, doesn't feel sound. Things are continuously becoming more complex, especially when both are trapped in a self-created replay with no end in sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to Burning Horizon...  
> Yeah...  
> After being lazy for a fairly long time, I've finally created the next chapter.  
> In all the time that has passed, I slowly sense the wide gap and its pain caused by my mother's sudden death.  
> Just right now, I'm fighting against wild erratic changes of my mood. At the moment, I couldn't imagine it to be any deeper.
> 
> After all, Burning Horizon has alleviated some of the pain, even before she has passed. This chapter's focus, though, IS a conincidence and isn't inspired by emotions I had after my mom's death. But it's... quite accurate... so to say.
> 
> This chapter contains graphic depictions of violence, blood and is heavily dark themed. I would advise against reading if your mood isn't up dark themed storytelling. Come back later or read with caution.
> 
> Changes to this chapter might follow depending on feedback. The core plot and story remains the same!

**Chapter 17 –  Why, of beyond all my eleven senses, can I not reach you?  
Theme Song: Lights  & Motion – Requiem**

The timeline I can remember had a wound; ruptured it was. I was capable of fixing that deep cut I had caused by traveling back to the butterfly on the metal bucket and left it be. Everything was fixed in a fraction of a second, and all the havoc I had wreaked vanished instantly. Faster than anything that happens in a heartbeat. I can’t think of any week after my return to the girls’ restroom, since I can’t remember.

Me, I was born inside an entity called time fragment devoid of own memory. A capsule that contained detail of memories from different realities. The storm and whatnot; bad things altogether were mixed. Now, I can’t remember the bigger wound I had been causing, because my memory solely goes back to the day I chose to let Chloe bleed out on the dusty floor giving in the fight against death.

Worst of all, I’m constantly suffering from flashbacks and visions from the past I remember being a part of. This timeline is no match at all. It appears to contain an even wider wound that I’m perpetually pulling apart. Look at this, I’m watching two half-transparent bluish ghosts arguing through the viewfinder of William’s camera. The red phoenix. Chloe explains,

“It’s too much of it! I can’t take it.” And she walks outside and barfs again. “Fucking sick,” she heaves waiting for her stomach to calm so that she catches a fresh breath.

Chloe’s ghost gets up and reels up to the gunned-down ghost of me. She hit an artery. A semi-opaque fluid leaves her throat, runs under her t-shirt, draws a red line and flows over her crouch. Max is fidgeting with her head, covering her neck preventing blood loss. Her hands turn red. Chloe falls onto her knees and tosses the gun out of the window. My other self twitches more and more, and finally stops fighting. She… killed me, and I had no… idea…

God, I’m nauseous. I can’t believe this. When I consider that seeing my own ghost running through myself inside a time fragment was uncanny enough, but now I’m watching my own self being shot through Chloe’s deceased father’s camera. My eyebrow sweats, my fingertips ice up, my entire body quivers. Fuck, I’ll throw up just like Chloe if I’m not looking away anytime soon.

I must do something, but what? The ghost of Chloe walks past me and trips over my real foot. What the? This isn’t anything like time fragments. I’m fucking capable of modifying an alternative day through a camera’s viewfinder. Meddling with an alternative day within an alternative day.

“Max, I’m feeling ill, I think I need he…,” Chloe chokes.

Strange, the ghost of her just fell and hit her head. God, I can’t look at myself bleeding out like this. Christ, I’m not even breathing anymore, there’s a wide splat of blood behind my neck… there’s blood everywhere. And now, all strength has left her arms, she dies, her arms fall onto her lap. The ghost of Chloe suddenly bursts into a fit of weeping. She must think, “This is it now.” You are way off, dear friend. Thy Devil shall finish the hell he created…

I remove the camera off my face. That was the most awful virtual-reality experience ever. Shit, I must go back in time. Maybe I can reverse their timeline with this concurrent one. I tightly clench my hand to a fist and muse about a subtle shift to the past. All the horrors I’ve seen cause immediate headaches and the chocking around my neck has turned back instantly. I can’t take it!

“Don’t drop,” Chloe orders me again. I haven’t gone further. I have to do something, now! “Please… leave!” I tell her. Chloe looks all confused but doesn’t move a muscle. “Go!” I scream at her and raise the camera to see through its viewfinder.

Chloe, still looking at me, staggers back almost stumbling over the stone threshold of the den. My heartbeat goes higher and higher. Fuck, what can I do? Dammit, my ghost is at gunpoint already. Grabbing the revolvers barrel with my cool fingertips, I push Chloe’s hand to her left. I don’t feel any force in the form of drag, I don’t sense the cold barrel in my hands either. I’m just… doing something I cannot describe how I make it.

Chloe’s ghost shoots and misses. “Max, I’m scared, what are you doing,” the present Chloe asks me afraid. A train passes the junkyard.

My breath quickens, my hands shaking. My eyebrow sweats even more and the viewfinder’s pane steams up. I can barely see the ghosts before me. Heartbeat pulsates inside my ears, the only sounds I’m capable of perceiving. Chloe corrects her aim and my hand doesn’t help any longer. I must use my other hand to draw the gunpoint away from, my alternate personality. Quick Max!

I use my left foot to quickly draw a little blotch on the ground. I put the camera on the table and rapidly head back to the freshly drawn blotch above the ground. Using both hands I try to memorize the last position of Chloe’s gun and pull there exactly without feeling any sort of force fighting against me. How? All my body exudes sweat and blood pounds through my veins making it impossible to feel. I even sense the heartbeat inside my toes and it prickles - it’s disgusting.

“What the hell are you doing?” she came back inside the brick wall den and watches me fighting against an invisible entity’s aim - a nothing. “What is this?” she adds to her last question.

I can’t wait anymore! I grab the red phoenix and check the situation. The bluish alternate Chloe screams something at me and throws the revolver at me. I can’t believe, what I did.

“Tell me, I didn’t hit you. Tell me my aim was off and I’d never hit you,” she almost… orders me while her eyes turn red.

She is drunk although she drank nothing until now at all. “Need a break,” she sits down where I initially spoke to her - at gunpoint mind you.

“I saw it. I saw the first Tuesday happening again. The red phoenix saved my…” I don’t dare finishing my sentence. I merely look down to poor drunk Chloe whose mental and physical condition dwindles the more time passes by - the red phoenix in my cold but shaking sweaty palms feels like a tool for truth seeking. A pathetic tool.

“Is this karma?” she avoids throwing up.

“It’s my fault. You said ‘goodbye’ forever, drove off home… went to your room, closed the door, locked it, cranked up some loud ass music and then… you had one too many.” I clench my left hand, close my eyes at the same time and swallow all pain as much as I can.

“Because I made you turn off the music, both Stepprick and Joyce thought you would be asleep. I come back, over and over and over and over…” I drop the red phoenix into my bag and fall on the dirty soil near the blotch that I’ve just drawn. A broken mirror from outside the den reflects the sunlight and blinds me instantly.

Still, my heart pounds against my thorax like a boxing glove. I wouldn’t even be surprised if all the pressure renders me unconscious again.

“What can we do?” Chloe whispers desperately.

“I’ve made a promise. The new student from abroad, I have to take care of him - treat him as a friend. He asked for this in 2015. You can come with me and we’ll have a great time. He won’t remember anything though,” I shrug and let myself fall on the ground with the rest of my body.

Dirt flies up and soars its way into my nose. I sneeze once, and all my upper body is back upright - well, thank you, dirty ground. A decision I won’t regret. Treat someone differently without repercussions. It’s a choice I make plus my responsibility, but devoid of consequence. This is against the rules of nature, but it should make me feel better.

“Bless you…” Chloe utters quietly. “So, if that’s your only plan, then let’s blow,” she suggests and tries to get on her legs.

“You can’t drive with that much alcohol up your head,” I massage my smarting left temple.   
“I haven’t drunk a drop.” - “Sure, you have. But only not on this very Tuesday.”

Chloe reels to the door and leaves the den. “God, cut me a break, your timeline-shit cooks my brain.” - “Hold my hand, we can’t cause yet another accident, Tuesday already exists twice, that’s accident enough to me,” I raise my hand and wait for Chloe to grasp. My job’s done, I altered alternative Tuesday. As if things ain’t complicated enough, for fuck’s sake.

“What’re you doin’?” Chloe hesitates. “I’ll… kind of ‘teleport’ - if you will - us.” - “You kiddin’ me? Enough of that magic bullshit! Look at me… you’ve poisoned me!” Chloe’s hands are shaking.

She barely keeps balance. I look to my right. Am I just going one more step crazy or is this a semi-opaque layer of blood against the bricks near the window? I walk to it and regard the splats. They seem real.

“What now?” pissed off Chloe behind my back crosses her arms.

I touch the semi-visible stains on the wall scrape them away with my fingernails. The blood sticks to my fingers. Bloods keeps pulsing through my body, my arms pulse the most. I can clearly see my veins move up and down. I turn around with half-visible blood sticking to my fingers. I show the stains right up her face.

“You want to see magic? This blood will fade because I corrected your aim. You ended my life in under a split second. You don’t want to die alone? Come with me and seize the fucking day!” I almost speak her tongue.

She exhales and looks away. Et voila - the blood fades. The stains will erase from my hands eventually. I can’t believe that she really originally killed me. It all needed another reality, a new branch, which saved me. That being said, both Tuesdays should merge together after this one has finished. Gosh, I will neither complain about headaches nor intricate timeline branches, but whoa, I suppose that no research or resumes about my past will help. Notes on my body should temporarily do the trick and maybe some photos. I can’t even tell if they remain as valuable as I remember them to be.

“I don’t want to die alone,” Chloe says and grabs my wrist. Guess, she still thinks that blood stains are all over my hand. They’re gone by now. I forced her aim off my gullet.

I clench my fist and move ourselves as close as possible to Blackwell. Chloe’s hand around my wrist soothes the arbitrarily rampaging wild thoughts in my head. Any negative emotion is cushioned by Chloe’s vicinity. Carpet floor underneath our feet - I made it into the dorms.

Hence the smell in the air. Sunlight permeating dirt coated windowpanes, creating our every step into a new type of art. Chloe’s shadow drops along the entire floor. It’s afternoon for sure. Normally, we would be both on our way back to Blackwell in her truck. All negative experiences put aside, we’re finally back at Blackwell making good on a promise I kept to the German Mister Dongle. I’m prepared. His English will suck, because he’s all-time nervous, and he’s probably trying to hit on me.

“hilf mir,” Chloe reads his slate as we approach the door. “Means ‘help me’. I know it’s sinister, but… compare that to what I have seen at the junkyard…,” I translate the inscription.

I knock on his door. Fast steps dart to the door, a shadow casts through the narrow gap between door and ground. Chloe holds my hand tightly; her shaking body makes us both shake in front of the dovish German student. He opens the door, quietly music reaches my ears. This definitely isn’t the same track he was listening in the other alternate reality.

“Hey…” speechless he is already.  
“Can we come in?”  
“Sure, uh…”  
“Thanks,”  
and we walk into his creepy tidied up room. Nothing worth a mention except the laptop on his desk. I disentangle myself from Chloe’s tight grasp and walk up to his desk. Even in his dorm room, sunlight seems spilling the entire area as though a white blanked beamed in front of his window into the chamber. A music player is opened, with a modest loudness his speakers fill his gloomy room with an even more sinister song.

“Hey… I’m Steven,” the German obviously awaits a handshake or a hug. I can’t see though, because something else has caught my attention.

“Yo, I’m… Elizabeth… uh… Max’s an old friend of mine, so…”  
“Ah, cool. It’s cool to… I mean… it’s nice to meet you.”  
“Yeah, pretty fancy tidied up here, dude.”  
“Oh, uhm, nice…”  
And I thought, I was the strangest person whenever it came to mundane conversations. Apparently, he also has the innate condition of just behaving weird.

“What are you doing?” since my prying eyes scan his desk meticulously, I’m not surprised he questions. One of his written paper notes read “Der Regen” and everything else underneath is composed in his tongue. I turn around and look through his dejected eyes. I remember being rude to him, but he has no balls to tell me this to my face.

In the wake of all decisions, he should be damn right pissed at me. Yet, he looks more… heartbroken than I have anticipated. “Wanna listen ‘Watch it burn’?” I kindly ask him returning 2015 favor of his. He timidly stares to the ground without any comment.

“First this song,” he almost whispers.  
“What does ‘Der Regen’ mean.”  
“Der Regen…”  
“Whoops… sorry for not speaking rude enough, haha,” I try brightening the mood. Germans’ being rude is sure to be the biggest stereotype ever.

“I can translate if you want.”  
“Cool, what’s it about?”  
“The rain.”  
Of all weathers you could think of, he chose the rain. Prone to melancholy? Unsurprisingly, he’s German, there’s nothing special about their melodrama.

“Are you okay, Chloe?” the German softly touches her knee, after she’s losing balance yet another time. The blood alcohol level will worsen when she’s back at her home, which would be in the evening. Her body is going to intoxicate itself via the alternate Tuesday. I guess, no red phoenix can alleviate that gruesome fate.

“Don’t touch me, you are weird enough already,” she slaps his hand away.  
“Pardon…”  
“We are here to listen to a song,” I say.

Whatever he’s currently listening to, it’s creeping me out. “Ripe for the devil” isn’t the right song for this situation.

“Okay, you know I’ve listened to ‘Watch it burn’?” half broken English comes of his flustered head.  
“Yep, intuition.”  
“What?”  
“Intuition, that’s knowledge of one’s gut, your mind telling the right thing to you.”  
“Gut? What’s that?”  
Oh my… this is tedious. Do I really have to search for this song on his laptop on my own? Guess, I’ll stumble upon tons of porn before finding his music folders.

“Hey guys, you hear that?” Chloe struggles getting on her legs again. Steven tries to help her, but she denies before he even comes close to her. Is she acting this up, or is there really something?

“Yeah, who’s playing the guitar?” the German opens his door. “I know that song,” Chloe concludes and steps outside his room. Is this some sort of signal to me to leave? I can’t believe it, it _is_ yesterday’s song that I had played on the guitar. “Is someone playing your guitar?” the German asks with decent pronunciation for a change.

“I’m not good, guys…,” Chloe covers her stomach and staggers hunched to the staircase.  
“Can I follow?” the German wonders.  
“You’d better stay,” I follow Chloe.

Moving up the staircase is more of a hurdle. Chloe barely manages to walk without falling over. I cover her back and allow her to use me like a crutch. She doesn’t hesitate one moment and stabilizes her stance through my body. The music becomes louder as we’re getting closer to my dorm room. Dana’s door is opened. She’s currently crying, but neither Chloe nor I think about that. I must get her to the restrooms.

“I’m feeling devastated… I’ve heard that song before. What the hell’s wrong with this place?” she covers her stomach with the right hand. Her left hand’s fingernails dig into my shoulder. I’m used to pain, I don’t care about another wound. Now I’m certain as well: Yesterday’s song on my guitar has been copied to this iteration.

“God, everything in my mind throws up. I fucking hate it. Sadness, distrust, heartbroken… it all revolves around myself,” she hobbles more unstable. The music has stopped. I can hear myself saying, “Perfect.” As glad and lucky as I was, I didn’t know what Chloe was about to do. She kneeled in front of me and cried, which assumedly was, because the song was so sad to her, but in reality, she determined leaving for good.

“Hell, it feels like a fucking nightmare,” Chloe enters the restroom. I go back to Dana’s room and try to soothe some of her pain. No matter how senseless Tuesday’s second iteration may seem, I do as much as I can without thinking about doing anything in vain. Kate enters her room first. Well, that appears to be the talk they had before I arrived. They don’t even recognize me watching them. I overhear the entire dialogue without hiding.

“Oh, c’mere what’s the matter?” Kate sits down next to her and strokes her right thigh.  
“You wanna know?” an almost sarcastic question back.  
“Sure, you’re crying with your door widely opened. No wonder I’m worrying.”  
“It’s boys’ stuff, you know?”  
“Tell me.”  
“What?” Dana snorts in her tissue and asks in disbelief.  
“Tell me about boys’ stuff.”

During my blatant conspicuous observation, Chloe vomits in the toilet like a champ. Kind of irritating that neither Kate nor Dana turn their heads. Chloe’s ghost leaves my dorm room and runs along the hallway. After passing Dana’s room, finally, both Kate and she follow her movement.

“Who was that punk?” Dana rubs her wet nose.  
“Wasn’t she on the video?”  
“Please stop this!” Dana raises her hand making Kate stop talking. Fairly disappointing, because I don’t remember anything about the Vortex-party or any video. And I am sure it’s not a video starring Kate Marsh doing… what the eff am I saying.

“Okay, back to your topic then,” Kate smiles and pets her shoulder.  
“It’s Trevor…”  
“Yeah, what’s wrong with him?”  
“He and I we… isn’t that something you despise?”  
“Despise what? You haven’t said anything.” Kate shrugs still smiling like an angel would.  
“We hooked up - couple of times. But I hate myself so much for this shit!” Dana hardly finishes her sentence and cries again. Kate isn’t bothered by this. Why should she? Advocating abstinence doesn’t mean you despise anyone who doesn’t follow that… rather obsolete rule. By no means would Kate despise anyone, God forbid!

“Hey, that’s fine. Nothing bad about it. What’s the boys’ stuff about?” she embraces Dana. Whom would she trust on Wednesday - after my sudden departure?  
“It’s not about what we made, but what he made,” her voice stutters.  
“Do you need help?” Kate sensibly asks.  
“You are already.”  
“What is it?”  
“Trevor wasn’t good to me. And I want him to back off,” Dana barely manages to finish her last sentence.

I bend down to her trashcan. A balled-up paper hiding inside. Shall I read?

entry 22 - this day is horrible.

max has been kidnapped yesterday and everybody’s eyes stick like glue to mr jefferson. what is going on at this place? why did nathan shoot himself at the same fucking day? did he know about max’s abduction? did he think she’s dying? i can’t arrange my thoughts… shit is piling up day by day. seeing max return out of the hospital is another nonsense crap? who made her go out of it? why? why? why? why about everything? i could slap trevor’s face for treating me like…

The rest is torn away. Wow, things around Dana seem to be worse than I imagined. Neither Juliet nor Steven dared telling me anything about the inferno or Dana. They wanted to protect me, and now, since I’m reading this, I’m anxious that I may’ve caused all of this. Besides, I skipped Kate and Dana’s rest of their conversation. Kate gets up and promises,

“I’ll come back later! Promise.”  
“Kate?” Dana reaches for her hand again, but she’s about to leave her room.  
“Thank you so much,” Dana cracks a dejected smile.  
“No problem, I’ll see you later this evening,” Kate waves while leaving.

Now, my former self should pay Dana a visit, not knowing anything about what Chloe is going to undertake nor how Dana feels inside. According to her self-written entry, she appeared to be abused or mistreated by that jerk Trevor. The guy whom I had photographed after punching his balls with his very own skateboard stunt. And I almost forgot, I fobbed off Daniel and forced the German to race the streets while Mark Townley was following us.

Great job Max, great one. Let’s get going and have a look at Chloe. I assume, she’ll live for around two more hours and then, the blood alcohol level might become hazardous. Shit, what am I going to tell her? Death is inevitable. All I can do, is giving her my word that she won’t die alone. There will be no afterlife. There’ll be just another iteration of Tuesday with her being alive until its next evening.

I open the restroom door, “Better?” I ask to her quivering body bent over the toilet. She falls down next to the toilet. The heart throbbing steadily underneath her t-shirt. “I don’t want to die!” Chloe clenches her fist and tries to raise her upper body. I think some of the alcohol has worn off, but her former self is about to drink more and more when she arrives home again.

“Help me, please,” she raises her hand and fights about with her other arm on the ground. I embrace her torso and yank with all force under her armpits. Disgusting breath of stomach acid pushes through her lips. “Yuck, go brush your teeth when we’re back at your place!” I turn my head away, because her breath reeks like death and beyond.

\--------

The sound of a bell chimed…

\--------

I’m standing inside Dana’s door leaning against the wooden frame. Heartbreaking to say, but I have to abandon her just another time… to avoid leaving Chloe locked alone in her room to die.

“Goodbye,” still feeling Chloe as imprints on my own body, I clench my fist and move myself to her place. Fuck all of this, I don’t care about the pain around my neck. Devil’s hands seize my throat and choke like never before. I endure, move forward in time as little as I can, and avoid the parking lot just as the Prices’ kitchen. I made it, my pulsing technique releases its claws around my neck, which allows me to breathe again.

Chloe lies on her bed. Is she gone? Please tell me, there’s more time to be there for her. Her head turns, the fabric beneath her face brushes as hair gently slips along. She slowly opens her jaw up to a narrow crack,

“Hey there, slowpoke…” Almost throwing up once more.  
“Hey, little dork,” I bite on my lower lip, repressing the growing pain inside my throat.  
“Don’t fight it; Look, I’m not doing it,” a weak attempt to raise her hand.  
“Stop it, Chloe,” I walk to her bed as long as I sense my legs.  
“Would you remove these bottles, pretty please?”  
She barely manages to lift her index finger, pointing at the emptied bottles. The music has been turned off already, which means I’ve gone further to the future than I initially had in mind.

“Please get them outta my sight. Can’t move a muscle, for reasons…”  
“Okay, I’ll put them in the closet if that’s okay to you.”  
“As long as I ain’t see them,”  
Another bottle collecting assignment. Although this time, I’m not going to prep a shooting _range_ , I’d rather put them out of her _range_ of vision. Damn, I far have I gone? I’m making inevitable death more bearable, that’s how far I’ve gone.

“Thanks, old friend. And please don’t go,” she says. I remember that kind of emphasis. It’s reminiscent of her first dialogue together with me in her truck. “Are you cereal?” I smile with my eyes watering some tears.

“It’s time…,” she says while I’m tidying up her room.  
“Not yet.” my voice cracks badly. My throat hurts. Chloe utters a glum sigh.  
“Done,”  
I finished the notorious bottle collecting game. Sure, the purpose has changed, but funny fact: It’s like the original Tuesday I remember. At least she’s not shooting anything. She’ll get along with her fate.

“Why can’t you do anything?” her heartbeat slows down. “Can’t I fight this?” she adds to her last question with her eyes sparkling. “It hurts so much. My head is a mess and I feel my former life slowly dying. It’s poison moving up my body.”  
“I won’t let… you won’t die alone,” I promise her, albeit it’s unfair and gruesome.  
“What are you gonna do?” she wonders, I sit down next to her on her bed.  
“I’ll wait, find another way,” I answer and remove a tear from my nose.  
“Continue without me!” clear determination in her voice.  
“I can’t,” I’m not even object by saying this.  
“Yes you can. Waking up this morning was the worst pain of my second life. I’ve succumbed death throes and I don’t want to get it a third, a forth and a fifth time. Leave me!” it takes her forever to get this out of her head. Succinct definition: she gave up on life.

Chloe grasps my wrist. All the time I was smelling that nostalgic scent of her room, but now it’s her poisoned breath. It’s like I’m talking to a ghost while a second instance keeps emptying down beer. This Chloe here is a slave of her former time. She’s caught inside this day and it is going to loop over and over. She will experience her blood intoxication again and again, with no end in sight. I know how to alter my own fate, yet I have no clue on how to change hers.

She firmly grabs the joint above my hand. Her skin is very warm. The breath slows down. In the very corner of my eye, I see her thorax raising and lowering, but I don’t dare looking at her. I hang my head hoping all of this turns out to be a big illusion - a blatant lie I wasn’t capable to discover. The force of her grip dwindles.

“Chloe?” the little stitch in my chest - my eyes squinting.  
“Wake up, Chloe,” I pretend to believe she’s still there.  
“Huh?” a whistle escapes her lips.  
“Fight…” I desperately say.  
“Bye.”

Her torso raises. All the rest appears to be invisible, a blur. Why is this necessary? Maybe it really was a huge lie. Possibly Tuesday won’t replay by itself. Maybe it’s not this reality’s rule to save Chloe. Shit, I wish I had my old diary, that no prying eyes will later read from. I can’t keep track of this bizarre dimension. Everything is mixed together.

For the very last time, I hear her nose exhaling the last whiff. Energy leaves her fingertips, the fingers follow, thumb, hand, arm, shoulder. Everything relaxes for the last time. My red-haired angel has left for good. Same horrible day number two, and no progress has been made. Not only that, I also broke the promise I made to the German. I didn’t go to him to spend some time, I just abandoned him just like Dana and Daniel. Nothing about this day was rewarding.

I’ve dared a look to her, but tears instantly push through my half-sealed eyes, like a magnet tearing my head back. Grave pain, although I knew her destiny. Sure Chloe, meeting you again was _destiny_. All of it in the “Real-Max’s” hand. Who even is _real_ in this calamity? Yes, I call this fucking dimension calamity. The devil shall pity my craftmanship.

Despite all this crap, there’s one aspect that racks my brain whenever I think about it: Steven mentioned the general meaning of time. If he were right, it means, there’ll always be a dimension which divides into multiple pieces in the wake of my rewinds. Could that mean, that I never really _healed_ the source timeline which I can remember?

Mark’s police car has just driven off. Correct, just when I thought I said farewell, I didn’t mean to let her die locked up alone in her room. David knocks on the door. I grab her hand. There’s a mild heartbeat still throbbing. Her fingers seize briefly and it startles me for a second. Another weak exhalation whistles through her teeth.

I scooch up on her bed until I’ve reached her belly area. With both eyes tightly closed, I embrace the faint body. Disgustingly reeking acid breath hangs in the air. Embracing her body tightly, her lungs blow out remaining oxygen. Pressing my ear against her ribs, I feel her dead heartbeat. Damn, it’s so weak, it could almost be my own heartbeat inside my ear.

“No!” I still can’t deal with it. With my right hand, I move my hand under her shirt, beneath her bra and press hard against her ribs. I… I’m… what am I doing? Sure, I won’t be able to resuscitate her. Did I mention, the same song has been playing on her stereo all along? Remember the song she wanted me play? The first other Tuesday but this one? Chloe’s chest is warmer than her hand… it’s too late Max. You fucked it up.

The doorhandle budges, but nothing expectedly opens the door. Heartbreaking, that he would’ve even been to late if the door hadn’t been latched anyway. Christ I’m everybody’s bloody doom. “Chloe?” David’s voice crashes against the door. My hand palpates the weak throbs… “Fight…” I repeat the impossible. My eyebrows dig into her collar bone. “Where’s the key to her room? She locked herself in and doesn’t respond,” David worries.

“Oh, it’s not on the hook? You’ve checked inside my nightstand?” Joyce shouts up from the kitchen downstairs.  
“Your nightstand? What’s it doin’ there?”  
“If it’s not on the hook, it should be there.”  
“Chloe? Answer me! Joyce, call the ambulance, something’s wrong!”

Oh my god! What can I do? The poisoned muscle under her ribs weakens, slams milder and softer against my fingertips. Every time, I think it’s getting weaker, I dig my fingers deeper into her skin. Just making sure, that I wasn’t told a lie. Chloe’s right hand slips over the ledge of her bed, and slams on the ground.

“Chloe!” David kicks against her door. Merely two heavy kicks suffice to breach the frame and force the door to fall over. David hurries to her. I stand up, since he’s not seeing me. Understandable, because, after all, his actions all about this day are predetermined.

“Oh, don’t do this to me, you hear me. Quick Joyce, get the first aid box out of the garage!”  
“Will you first tell me, what’s going on,” she darts up the stairs.  
“Is the ambulance on the way?”  
“No, what did she do?”  
Joyce freezes, meanwhile I’m going to Chloe’s chair at her desk and contemplate all those remaining letters. Almost forgot that they’ve been burned by her hand at the junkyard. It’s all by design.  
“Where is it?” Joyce bolts to the garage.  
“Next to my car. It’s still on the ground. Used it to treat a cut in my palm,” he massages Chloe’s chest, and subsequently takes her hand to sense the coldness inside those fingers.

At the same time, I spot an interesting polaroid photo on Chloe’s desk. Wow, that must have been shot on Monday. It was after my escape out of Jefferson’s grip. I was helplessly lying on her bed, feeling like I was simultaneously blistered inside the darkroom bunker. Maybe I’ll keep that one. David began rendering first aid, rescue breathing and such. Yuck, her mouth must reek noisome.

Now I remember the next checkpoint, it’s going to be at the parking lot, for sure. Sirens of the ambulance are wailing in the distance during my continuous loop of irrational thoughts. How much control is left? How much responsibility is there left for me to take up. This isn’t the world I remember. This isn’t the regular type of time meddling and altering everybody’s fate I’m used to.

Fact is, today is the second time, I’ve saved my life and only god knows how often I’ve been saved by another coincidence. Think about Brooke’s drone? Real-Max’s death wish? Chloe hitting my neck and lethally wounding an artery? And yet, nothing fucking matters, because Chloe died yet again without my fighting against it.

It’s another layer of complexity that is going to add up on the pile of shit I’ve created. I’ll go back - or forth - to 2015 and will to listen to my other self’s morose babbling about how worthless I am. Two more pairs of feet run up the stairs. Clearly, I can hear the equipment carried with them. Two medics enter, one of them almost trips as the doorhandle cracks apart, since the door is helplessly lying on the ground just waiting to be thrown away. Thrown away just like all these tears which are running down my cheeks, my jawline up to the chin, to drip on a narrow spot of sunlight on the ground.

“Mister Price, you made a great job, we’ll continue from now on,” one of them appears familiar. I think it was the same guy that had driven me to the hospital. This time though, he has called David “Price” instead of Madsen. Sad thought if you knew, that all about Chloe’s woes had revolved around William’s death. Slowly I begin to grasp the problem Real-Max was facing all the way. I’m a naïve idiot to her, because I had no clue on what is going to wait for me in this very macabre week.

But she, on the other hand, most likely had a hunch. Hardly surprising, Real-Max had one uncorrupted polaroid of Teddy and I as a last resort. More efficient than cyanide by all means; she was right, Chloe wasn’t in danger but I. All choices fathomed, and I conclude that all decisions were horribly chosen. I fucked it all up to a point of no return. Now all calamity happens in 2015 whereas nothing happens in 2013. Despite some rain, there’s nothing more to speak of. I wish I could tell Kate all this. 

Not much time left. Mark and I will arrive at Blackwell eventually. Told him, I left a friend for good without a clue what I was really saying. I left her to die, and despite my knowledge about how this is going to end, seeing those two medics injecting adrenalin and just doing their job soothes my dark pessimism.

With her back pressed against the wall, Joyce covers her eyes, draws both her knees up to her mouth preventing her to see anything of her daughter’s misery. David crouches next to her playing the tough guy. Even he occasionally pushes two fingers into his eyes to dry his repressed tears which are desperately trying to find their way out the lids of his.

I also remind myself of the short occasion of my seizure. It must have caused Real-Max’s way to Arcadia Bay hospital. IV and meds prepped for her to be drowned in a coma, or whatever Dr. Jacoby was trying to accomplish.

I don’t know how Chloe is currently feeling. What’s crossing through her mind? Is it a light she’s entering, being welcomed into a new world she belongs? Maybe a world William will first embrace her for over an hour. Only God knows, how much Chloe misses him; and only God knows, how much she has changed in this broken reality.

“I don’t want you to leave me either,” Joyce’s voice breaks, as she talks through her hands and knees which are still covering her face. The strong mommy devastated and heartbroken… I have no idea about the pain she’s just going through. The mere fact that her daughter poisoned herself to drown the hell inside her hell, it makes me wanting to switch sides with her. David sits down and exhales out loud. He gave up his fight against the tears. His wet face glistens in the evening sun, the little spot of sunshine has moved away from my feet to his face.

\--------

The jarring bell rattles in my head and echoes for more than a minute. I’m stuck in this phase. Nothing makes sense. This is a void I’m in, abidingly waiting for something to pull me out. The heartbeat sensor attached to Chloe’s heart reverberates in this husk; sending a chill down my spine at any time, the beep screeches…

beep… beep…  
_flatline_ … a bang occurs -  
beep… beep…  
_flatline_ … a bang occurs -  
beep… beep…

\--------

The fabric under my legs, it’s definitely a car seat. A distinct scent of synthetics, for the sun has baked the entire interior of Mark’s car. Still being blind, I unstrap myself out of the belt. Its searing hot metal touches my upper arm, sticks like glue to it. “Ah!” I scream, but nothing leaves this cage. My eyes open to a small crack, my lashes cover the rest of the image. Dusk, but still bright enough to penetrate the tiny gap of my eyes rendering me blind. Aside from a mellow noise which sounds akin to the ocean in the distance, there’s nothing else my ears perceive.

Two blurry silhouettes move a few yards away, definitely outside the car. Mark has locked me up as is. Any attempt of dragging my lids fails. I sense them twitching as soon as I try again. I can feel again. The head must lean against the window pane. The tempered glass hot and boiling my skin. And finally, my eyes open a little more by themselves. Mark and Steven standing like puppets on the tarmac. Hanging his head, the German leaves the quarrel. Mark returns. Cracks the notorious smile.

“Max, we’re back. We’ll… Max?” he iterates. “Your heart leaps inside your mouth,” and iterates yet again. Mark unlocks the car. “I didn’t want to interrupt your daydream, so, I waited outside and let you dream. It looked peaceful,” he looks away. Better get going, although there’s no point in anything. “Goodbye…” I say.  
“No last words?”  
“Last words for what?”  
“I leave for good, too?”  
“Think about it another time,” I suggest.  
“I already have, my dear.”  
“Then, go your way.”  
“Farewell, Max.”  
“Yeah, bye.”

His engine howls up, but I won’t turn my head back. He might be a good soul, albeit Real-Max doesn’t think the same way. No matter how many lives’ fate I’m planning to change, his life isn’t worth the effort. His wife, his boss Sean Prescott… I can’t let it narrow me in. Kate’s, Dana’s, Chloe’s, Steven’s and my bloody lives are at stake. Both Mark and Steven chose to leave Arcadia Bay. Maybe that’s the sanest plan of all. Just leave. This hell tormented us all, even the German who assumed he could rebuild his life again. Arcadia Hell ain’t such a place, buddy.

And just when I think about bad things happening, clouds move here from up the hills. Rain is imminent. So what? What next? Head over to Steven and listen to some music with no change in this reality to be expected? Max, where are you going? I almost ran into the tree near the poolside. I look up, some birds chirp up in the treetop. They haven’t left to fly south yet. Considering this place’s fate, they better should get going damn soon.

I look down to my arm and take a pen out my bag.

 ~~-dana sad  
-pulse-powers  
-letters of despair  
-how i leave hospital?  
~~ -chloe at vortex-party  
-kate vortex-party  
~~-student from abroad  
-william (what happened?)  
-windmill?  
~~ -red miracle?  
~~-visions of other lives~~  
-other’s thoughts  
-burning horizon

A couple of unanswered questions which are to be unearthed, sooner or later. What’s the point of it all anyway? This day is finished. I’ll head back to my room and wait until my eyes close to wake up in 2015 to hear the next rebuke about how useless I am. The rain teems, lucky me, I made it inside the dorms in time. Everything dead and silent as a graveyard. Jeez no, I don’t want to think about graveyards right now.

I enter my Maximus-abyss, turn some music on and wait. Wait what is this song? Lights and Motion? Huh, pretty reminiscent of Frames. Supposedly, I am more into post-rock stuff on this timeline. Doesn’t change the matter that I like it just as much. My door opens by itself, moved by an unknown hand - my former-Tuesday’s hand.

“You’re happy with the new strings?” the German wonders, during entering my room, but he blatantly follows the other Max with his eyes. This looks like a bad acting cast… there’s no counterpart for him to talk to. “About Kate,” the German sits down on my bed almost on my legs.   
“What’s up with her? Since our trip to the diner, she’s acting weird. I don’t want to make you angry, but you are not very nice to me, either… and the cop, who drove you back here, was mean to me… told me to not touch you ever again. I’m feeling misunderstood,” every word at the same pace.

I look up to the ceiling and feel blue. Grief and loss, in a cycle. Worst of all, it’s going to repeat and I’m out of ideas on what to make out of it. The wall of photos sprawls to the tip of the doorframe. Took some time to find the floating roof out of the time fragment from which I also stole the burning horizon image. An oddity of it, being the fact that I could focus it and time travel. But where? How safe is it? Wouldn’t it be just another time fragment? Worst case - a time fragment which I cannot leave?

“What has happened to your leg? Doesn’t look nice,” he points at… yeah right, almost forgot my wounded leg. In all my efforts and hurdles, I forgot about this petty abrasion. He looks sad and depressed. He stands up and faces my bookshelves at the wall.

“I’ll take this. I have the feeling, you don’t want to see me. I like you Max, but… I seem wrong to you,” he takes his album off the bookshelf. He leaves my room, without closing the door nor saying goodbye, either. Maybe I should rest. One of my own album covers lays at the brink of the shelf. Will it drop? A draft of air pushes via my room, drags the door and slams it shut. Thanks, bad weather. The album drops and slaps on my face. Uh, it’s Lights and Motion. Reanimation.

Well thanks, now I’m even less prepared for the Real-Max’s stern rebuke in the future. Just one alternate day ago, she _embraced_ me. When you come to think of it, this is a figurative sign. Embracing yourself, loving oneself… that’s a far cry away from what I’ll get now - huh, I say _now,_ but literally mean _in two years._

Honestly, the only thing that doesn’t stop thrusting its blade into my heart, is, that Chloe is constantly revived in this self-created feedback loop. Another fact is, that with every new layer, I feel more thoughts circling in my head. You know, I somehow felt Joyce’s pain together with Chloe’s woes. It’s like a sixth sense. The empathy of mine. However, this is Tuesday’s second tier of alternative. _Tomorrow_ will be the third tier, and I will be bestowed another set of senses. Five times three plus one, because empathy beams through all alternate days.

I’ve never felt so close to Chloe, but yet so far away at the same time - chances of reaching her go away.


	18. Self vs. Selves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The evildoer all along was before her eyes. And regarding her past won't help her out of the next cage she has gotten herself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took some time to post something new, eh?
> 
> I've been improving a lot recently. Currently I'm learning the use cases of the subjunctive mood. I wish there were similar moods in my language to compare, but alas, I had to relearn and do everything anew.
> 
> I'm suffering a lot from depressions and cruel nightmares ever since mom has passed and yet another family member had been diagnosed with cancer. Considering the pile of crap that has been increasingly growing, I do oddly well. My studies suffer a bit, but I worked it out.
> 
> After all, I still pursue the goal of getting better in English and conclude the prose writing stuff. Burning Horizon's plot has changed a little and the older chapters are no match to the more recent ones (14 upwards).
> 
> I'll continue this story until it's done. Another thing that boggles me is that the better I become with English, the more details I'm capable to add. Which, in this case, enlarges chapters further and further. So, I've determined to finish Burning Horizon and then trim off the unnecessary fat - if there were any in the future.
> 
> Love!

**Chapter 18 - Self vs. Selves  
Theme Song: Akira Yamaoka - Promise**

“The heart pounds. Slowly but surely, it sucks in blood like a sponge and releases it all again by squeezing itself together. An endless cycle which is never about to change until its very last throb. A flush moving back and forth in a constant manner. Fresh air is being sucked into one’s lungs which stimulates the calm flow of blood. Oxygen flowing just like water; in and out - a constant movement within the cricks of her lungs. This process doesn’t stop, it’ll be in a hurry, here and there, it’ll slow down at times allowing the rest of her body to relax. Isn’t she beautiful? This heart is a happy heart. Every throb makes her happier to exist.

Day after day, she’ll fight to keep up her schedule. In the morning, she’ll brashly twitch allowing her bloodstream a fast awakening. Whenever there’s stress, she’ll raise the rhythm to parry muscle’s soreness. And if, by any circumstances, she really needs to push forward, she’ll be supported with adrenaline to keep everything up and running. Nothing will stop that beautifully working system.

Day by day, this wonderful muscle will constantly grow bigger, since all her body is being reared and getting more grown up. Childhood days are over. High doses of various hormones will now take over and control her very own system. Arousal, energy, power, lust, it all can be triggered right from yer most intelligent friend, the brain. However, there aren’t always positive influences controlling the heart’s condition. Pain, sorrow, betrayal, and much more can improve, or even worsen, this heart’s condition.

No matter how bad her soul may ask for salvation, the perpetual job is always flawlessly done by the strong heart. A faithful friend in one’s chest you can count on; always fluttering against the sternum to prove its worth. Can this heart be glad to pound in someone’s chest called Chloe Elizabeth Price? Of course, it can! No exception, this heart is proud of it being a part of Chloe’s life since the very beginning.

As little Chloe has grown up, more and more stress was out there for her to face. Broken faith, destroyed childhood, ruptured bonds, false love, and uncountable other things that everyone has to face once in a while. Our dear Chloe, however, has to confront so much more, a long reading session wouldn’t be enough. Being glad all day, the heart made a great job dealing with immense stress and pain poor Chloe always had to tackle. For instance, instead of racing like a champion when there was a quarrel, the heart has learnt to not beat over two hundred times a minute. All this thanks to his big buddy, the brain. There’s so much Brain has to manage, but that doesn’t stop heart from keeping up its flawless work.

All in all, a very healthy condition. Nothing to be worried about. The muscle resumes her everyday tasks worriless. Sleeping, relaxing in the sun, hiking, quarrel with stepfather - excuse me, I mean: stepdouche -, smoking grass, all included in her repertoire. It’s like an inner bright smile that happens when the lungs are filling themselves with fresh air. A heart’s smile that motivates to overcome new obstacles, to face other sheer insurmountable problems, that appear to be unfeasible to solve at first glance.

Betrayal, remember? It had occurred for so many times in Chloe’s life, her heart learnt to protect itself, but the big friend Brain doesn’t like it. Intelligence creates a mind - a soul if you will - and if heart feels crushed, stabbed and drowning in its own blood, it is sure to endure all that pain with no physically harm. Nothing Brain can avoid once it has learnt to perceive this information, nothing the poor heart can do about it as well.

So far so good, this body is a hale and working human being with emotions and feelings. None of all malicious influences shall damage or destroy this unique but beautiful and imperfect entity - we call it soul. But one fine day, heart encountered a hurdle it has had to overcome. Fresh blood was being sucked into the muscle and the heart had barely managed to push it out again. ‘Brain, what’s wrong?’ it asks but there’s no response, no information. The lungs deliver their regular amount of new and fresh air into the system.

‘Whatever,’ the everlasting muscle concludes its work. Squeezing together to shoot blood into the veins feels different. Confused, as the heart may be, one more time she shouts to the big Brain, ‘Hey, what’s shakin’, bacon?’ and yet again, there comes no answer back to her. After sucking in blood one more time, she instantly quivers. ‘What on earth?’ the heart winces and twitches and forces her to perform an irregular double beat.

‘Brain? Something’s changed!’ the poor heart has recognized an unknown threat. The high oxygenated blood senses poisoned. But what could that poor thing do about it? Interwoven inside Chloe’s body, she cannot just disentangle herself from all veins, arteries, the cardiac valves, chambers, tissues, layers of flesh and leave. ‘Okay,’ the tiny heart gives in and sucks one more time. ‘Ouch! Why does it hurt so much?’ it wishes it could cry, because of the sheer amount of toxicity of the blood.

Eighteen thousand times. Eighteen thousand beats have followed, but then the heart says, ‘I have to slow down a bit.’ So she did. From sixty down to fifty slow beats per minute. ‘Okay, Chloe’s body lies down, which means I can calm even more,’ her little muscle deduces. Until then, eighteen thousand painful hits had been processed. ‘I’m so sorry, companion. It’s impossible to keep up with this,’ finally an answer by the big Brain. ‘Why did you ignore me?’ the heart has gone down to thirty throbs. What follows, is a dead unintelligible answer by Brain. Heart can’t hear it anymore.

‘Why would you do this?’ the tiny poor heart moans. It sucks one more again, ‘It hurts so badly,’ and twitches erratically. Brain shouts something again which reminds us of, ‘Hang in there!’ but Chloe’s heart has given up. ‘I can’t do this’ she moans and beats again. Ever since the first beat of eighteen thousand beats, she’s continuously feeling stabbed from the inside. The toxic current of blood through her chambers aches like a searing hot dagger being thrusted into her.

At the age of nineteen, that poor but strong heart has stopped pushing fresh blood through Chloe Price’s body. A weakened mind, pained will of life and overall grave mixture of drugs have ended Chloe’s life. The heart’s last words were, ‘I’m sorry” but didn’t notice her sudden fail. It just… stopped.”

Whoa! What a dream! Darkness all around me with a gloomy narrative in my vicinity. “Peekaboo, doofus, it’s me,” Real-Max pokes on my shoulder. I’ve slept on her legs. Yep, I’ve said _slept_ because I feel a little relaxed. “Nice, you are relaxed? Of all the things you could feel, you say relaxed?” And as expected, she’s upset about my pointless deeds devoid of positive outcomes.

“Actually no. I’m grateful,” she nods with vacant stare into this dismal sickroom.  
What does she mean, now? Aren’t I the _devil within_ to her? Didn’t I fuck up all along?  
“No, brainless goof, look around you and see for yourself,” she raises her voice.  
We are back in the psychiatry, but how did we make this possible?  
“Curt answer, you ran away. Told you to rather trust him.”  
Sure, and why aren’t we in Seattle together with Juliet?  
“Because that’s not how _this_ timeline works, stupid!”

And what about all these things you haven’t told me? Inferno, my parents, Nathan? Just why?  
“ _And_ , didn’t you just come back from the painstaking _second iteration_ of Tuesday?” a sardonic question. Sure, yeah, but that doesn’t get me anywhere.  
“You are about to face the _third iteration_ ,” she tells me while air-quoting the last words.  
I know. What do you want to tell me?

“Oh, why ain’t you commending my sophisticated story about Chloe’s heart? How ‘bout that? I mean, sure, I could’ve said something else, like: ‘The heart’s last words were _heartbreaking_ ’. Instead of the heart’s last words ‘I’m sorry’ it is just ‘ _heartbreaking_ ’? And… oh, damn, I forgot to mention the failed resuscitation.” she sarcastically adds.  
Am I missing something?  
“God, you’re obnoxious… No, you’ve understood all there is for you to understand.”  
No shit, thank you. Now what? About your story, it was pulling my _heartstrings._  
“Thanks,” Real-Max claps her hands loud one inch in front of my face.

“Listen, I think, you’ve missed one itty bitty clue. Let me bring light into your darkness,” she moves her hands as if she were reciting in front of a big crowd of people.  
Is she on drugs or what? Geez, she’s being an asshole.  
“Shush, now listen: Let it die. Leave her be. Give up!” like a preacher sermonizing, she moves her hands about her head. What the hell? No way, I’m going to unite with that lunatic version of me.  
“Hah, you can’t be serious?” she grins and looks at me… not quite, she’s looking at someone else. A quick peek behind me doesn’t help. There’s no one.  
“Yeah, it’s drugs. And look what else they did to me,” she points at a cut on her trachea.

“There are over 300 muscles within your body, heart included. You may have experienced a _vision,_ but your simultaneous stupid visions won’t match up to what a real fucking tonic-clonic seizure feels like. Every muscle will move and convolute to a painful ball. Spasms throughout your body, including our fucking heart!” she points at me and lays her other hand on her chest.

I can remember the seizure she had on the first Tuesday when the sirens of the ambulance started to wail. I was in Mark’s car and then I blacked out into this reality. “Applause, Mister Einstein. Great that you are still capable of connecting dots,” she claps in her hands almost missing them. Where is she looking at?

“Anyway, you had rejected my wish to travel to our early days of being a toddler. My wish that you end us both and heal literally _every-fucking-thing,_ ” she looks on my lips. I’ve just noticed how ashen her face appears in this diffuse somber room.

Is she expecting me to connect some other dots? What the hell does she want me to do?  
“Nothing, why would I ask for anything else? You exist and I can’t change that,”  
A bitter answer. Thanks. Helps a lot.

“Help? Nice, a trigger-word. You want help? You want a cure? You want change to the better? Then listen, dumbass!” she rests her head on the pillow behind her. The entire sickbed is raised so that her torso is upright. I look to my diary. Is it still encrypted? How encrypted is it?  
“Will you now listen, or will you keep up asking questions on how to ruin even more?”  
Okay, I’ll shut it. I try to get up to walk to the window, but my legs are numbed.  
“Leave Chloe alone. Just don’t do anything with her. Ignore her existence.”  
Is that how you want to torture me? Leaving her to die a third time?  
“Tuesdays will end if you leave her alone,”  
Sorry, I can’t. She will suffer.  
“And you caused this!”

I wish there is a way to help her. I wish there were ways to save Kate. Tuesday is solid the way I chose. All my fault and nothing I’d refuse to accept. “Then, leave her. It’s going to work. Do it. Over and over. Concentrate on yourself and maybe, it will finally get me out of this fucking hospital!” the Real-Max before me suddenly cries. What’s her problem? She started off being an asshole and being sarcastic, but now she’s the crybaby.

“It’s my fucking creation, okay? I’ve formed the world you have to face. I can’t do more than just fucking deal with it,” she covers her face. One tear draws a little glistening line to her jawline and runs to the chin. Strange to say, but I pity her. I pity the alternate version of me, which I can see through my eyes without standing in front of a weird mirror. “Whatever. I just regret the day, Joyce has handed me another photo book overflowing with painful memory. I took those photos and made the worst out of it. I’ve created the red miracle, I’ve created time fragments with it, I fucked up my past, I fucked up all the other lives that my ego is stuck in - including you. Bullshit!” she almost sounds like Chloe herself. “Shut up! Just shut your fucking mouth!”

Her arms open and reveal her ashen face. Pale bloodshot eyes and thick veins around the iris. Above her eyes, there is a thin white layer. She looks nowhere, allows her eyes to well tears. “Stop looking at me, that’s _self-pitying_ ,” she comments my thoughts. Without looking she fumbles around with her left hand. She finally grabs my own hand. The grip is weak, her skin chilling dry.

“There is no way to put an end to this. Nothing,” she still looks away from me. “The only way to kill ourselves is to go back to our past and swallow teddy’s eye and locking the door. A painful, yet effective way,” she swallows. Her dry throat whistles while breathing. I can clearly see that it aches inside her gullet. “But this polaroid image is corrupted, now… and the only other way to put an end to us all, is to kill yourself within a time fragment,” she now looks back to me, not into my eyes though.

“You wrote a letter to our parents. It worked. The letter exists. But it doesn’t change the week that you are captured inside. You have to endure, and, hopefully, we won’t see each other ever again. I just hope, there will be an alternate reality for you and I where we can live our lives without being a victim of our own actions,” she rolls her head to the left and looks out of the window. “Not feeling responsible for anything… taking responsibility the classic way,” she rambles.

What about the polaroid of myself? From Monday? When Chloe took the picture of me lying on her bed? I could rewind and warn her about Tuesday? The Real-Max rolls her head back and looks at me, “You see this cut? I had a stroke, a seizure of my entire fucking body, and _you_ want to worsen this?” she grits her teeth. “You want to time travel with polaroid images again? In a timeline where a normal _pulse_ feels as though someone were chocking you to death?”

Maybe I’m wrong. But it could be an alternative. “God, if only you knew,” she shakes her head in disbelief. “I’ve created tools of destruction. Weapons - time fragments are one thing, but all the stuff around it makes it worse. This psychiatry, my mind utterly deteriorating, Dr. Jacoby being paid by Sean Presscock… I could go on and on, but it wouldn’t matter, and you won’t listen,” her darting eyes don’t fix on anything in this empty room.

“Clever idea. Like in the good ‘ol days of time traveling when you were suffering from Stockholm-syndrome. Running up to the lighthouse and watch Arcadia Bay being torn apart by your first creation. Now, with all things considered, including the burning horizon and time fragments, you want to time travel in this riveted timeframe - 2013 - to fix your flaws all over again? Impressive… you really have no self-respect,” she coughs at the end and grabs a glass on her nightstand. No speck of dust or grain sticks to it. Everything here makes me sick.

Putting the glass aside, she goes on, “Believe me, if there were a button which ends my life in an instant, I wouldn’t hesitate pressing it!” she swallows and winces in pain. I cannot wait to teleport into her head and feel the cut at my trachea. A small tear leaves her eye which she swiftly brushes off her cheek. “Instead of hitting books, dealing with life the way it is, we just can’t leave it be. The beginning of it all is I, who couldn’t stop flipping through never-ending photobooks overflowing with childhood memories of Chloe…” she interrupts her train of thought and drinks from her glass. I can see in her eyes, that each gulp gravely hurts.

Tell me something about the encrypted diary.  
“More precisely and I’ll give my best,” she reacts normally.  
I lean toward the nightstand to grab the diary, but my legs are dead.  
“Wait… here,” Real-Max hands me the diary.  
Torn pages, almost no recent entries.  
There it is:

“October first

this is obnoxious. You could use a shrink. He will take care of you. Fade away in there. This diary is senseless. Stop to read or parents vanish!?”

I’m puzzled by this. What does it mean?  
“Well, you know that reading your entries accelerates your perception of time?”  
Please explain. Every word on this page flickers like a cloud of moths around a lantern.  
“Shrink means Jacoby. He’s interwoven with Nathan, and Nathan with us. ‘Fade away’, means that every iteration of my personality must abide in their corresponding time fragment. ‘This diary is senseless’, means that my entries have changed the more I have altered realities by time travelling. ‘Stop reading’, refers to this. My parents are gone already. I’m glad this entry hasn’t changed. It proves that you hadn’t fucked up the most basic foundation of all my actions,” she drinks her water.

What about Nathan?  
“Stop asking. The lesser you know the better,” she’s still swallowing water with tiny gulps.  
What’s up with Michael.  
“What should be wrong with him?”

\----------

This checkpoint feels like a needle stitching deep inside my skull. My throat becomes sore, my body weak - my eyesight shrinks.

\----------

Wait, I’m blinking. Where’s the image? Why can’t I see anything? I can move my hands, but my legs have literally gone dead. I can’t feel any type of blood flow inside them. The cut at my trachea burns. Oh my god, I’m fucking blind. Of all the things that could’ve gone wrong, I chose the worst.

 _get out of my head_  
_get out of my head_  
_get out of my head_  
_get out of my head_  
_woes never end_

The voice in my head screams. Her vocal cords clattering and getting sore. Worst side effect of being blind is being more sensitive to noises. I’m afraid the voice could destroy my eardrums, but it’s _all just in my head_. Steps come close to my room. Someone enters.

 _i miss him so much_  
_he won’t ever come back_  
_it’s all in vain because of her_  
_now we have to pay for this?_

The cryptic voice in my head goes crazy. This person in my room scratches herself.  
“Hello Miss Caulfield. I’ve got delightful news,” a familiar voice. Jacoby.  
“Tumor appears to cause your amaurosis. At first glance, it appeared to be a malign blob on the MRI, but after many discussions with other experienced doctors I can assure you that we can cure the darkness. If we are lucky, we can also treat your bipolar disorder and paralyzed legs,” he promises and obviously rejoices at his research.

“How high is the risk?” I wonder.  
“What risk are you afraid of if I dare ask?” his politeness stinks.  
“The risk of dying when you want to cut this thing out of my ill brain?”  
“There’s no risk, because there’s no need to undergo surgery, Miss Caulfield,” he scratches somewhere on his body.  
“So, what?”

  
“You’ll have to sign this formula, I can call Michael if you want to be read its requirements. Sean Prescott wants to support you,” according to his voice, he must gleam with joy as he’s saying this.

“What kind of treatment?” I try to watch in the direction from where he’s speaking.  
“Infusion. We are going to use an expensive prototype substance to rinse the tumor. I’m proud to tell you that Mister Prescott consents to help curing your disease,” he apparently rubs his hands.  
“It seems that it’s been growing for approximately five years. Very slow growth it seems. Your most recent seizure proves to be a stroke caused by this growth. You can’t lose with this substance. This treatment should remedy everything. I believe it’ll take two days for it to take effect.”

 _this is it_  
_we wanted it_  
_~~Nathan~~ will come_  
_thank you_  
_love_

I stop questioning the reality I’m perceiving.  
I merely ask, “Can I talk to Michael first?”  
“Certainly, and maybe, by the end of this week, you’ll be able to _see_ him.”

He carefully places the clipboard on my right hand, which lays on my dead thigh. So intense to feel the synthetic material. All other senses work harder since my eyes don’t even catch a beam of light. It’s a dark-brown blotch that displaces as I look around. Jacoby hands me a pen by simply dropping it onto my palm. No comments wasted. I won’t question the voice in my head nor the Real-Max I’ve just talked to and whatever else realities might exist. I write somewhere on the paper. I’m sure, I missed the line for the signature by a couple of inches.

“Thank you, Miss Caulfield. May we initiate therapy today?” a half-baked question.  
“Certainly, Dr. Jacoby,” I politely answer in return, but can’t hold back the sarcasm in my voice.  
“I’ll talk to Michael. Daniel would be pleased to visit you, too. Do you agree?”  
Oh my god, my action did matter, Daniel wants to see me?  
“Of course, I… I’d be delighted,” I smile and turn my head towards the direction Jacoby has been talking to me all along.

“Your visitor will arrive soon, any ideas for a present in the meantime?” he asks before leaving. So that’s why he asks this. He knew about the present the German wants to hand me. “No idea,” I shake my head. After almost inaudibly harrumphing, Jacoby finally leaves the room. Look at the bright side, Max, you are not strapped and gagged to this sickbed. Wasn’t there a glass of water next to me?

Blindly I fumble next to me where I assume the glass would be. Butterfingers strike again! The glass falls and I’m unable to catch it. I’m waiting for it to break.  
“Gotcha, little friend,” Michael silently snuck in.  
“Michael,” I smile and raise my arms and wait for him to hug me.  
“Hey,” Daniel has entered after his bigger brother.

“Is this room 23?” I hear Steven’s voice. His English is kind of worse than his other alternative being. He’s at least alive. “Oh, you must be Max’s visitor. Daniel and I will come back later. I think, you both need some time alone,” Michael turns around and leaves. Two pairs of feet walk out and a third pair strides up to my bed. I raise my arms again, “No hug?” I ask him, since I can remember his wish… which I had rejected.

 _ ~~Nathan~~ where are you?_  
_we are so damned and alone_  
_what do we want?_  
_come back to us_

“Jeez, shall I call someone?” he catches my aching head and props it so that I can breathe.  
“They made a cut on…” he spotted the patched up cut on my trachea.  
“Had a stroke recently,” I mange to say while trying to handle the pain.  
The voice in my head appears to be some kind of speaking memory. At first glance, I supposed that it was Real-Max’s voice being mad at ourselves again. In this case, I reckon that it’s another mind. Real-Max had been recreating 2013 over and over until reawaking in 2015 without knowing what’s going on and what _had been_ going on for those two years. I guess, the voice in my head actually reflects a forgotten-Max.

 _she is blind_  
_ignorant_  
_evil_

Is she talking to me, right now?  
“Hello?” I hear Steven waving his hand before my face.  
“Sorry, was caught up in some… rather disquieting thoughts,” I fake a smile.  
“Disquiet?” he supposedly scratches his head.  
Oh man, his English definitely isn’t as honed as his altered version. I pray that we safely arrive at Seattle and live our calm lives with Juliet and his girlfriend.

He’s not returning the hug. I try to grab his arm and eventually manage to reach his elbow first. I remember him wearing bracelets but his arm remains empty. My fingers brush up to his bony wrist. He interprets my blind groping as an attempt to reach his hand. He gently closes his fingers around mine. “Where are your bracelets,” I give up and let go off his soft grip.  
“What’s that?” he doesn’t know what I mean. Damn it, I forgot her name.

The likelihood of him not meeting his girlfriend and not having a great job should be higher. I don’t know what I have changed in the past that had caused this. Had I had just the slightest idea of what I was doing back in 2013 I’d study it to bring Chloe back to us - the living.

“I have a gift for you,” he starts off somewhere else. Strangely enough, he sounds like he doesn’t want to see me at all. “The red phoenix?” I ask him. “The what?” he replies pretty confused. “Red phoenix,” I repeat slowly in syllables, because I expect that he didn’t hear me clearly. “I don’t know what that is,” he apparently moves a chair up to my sickbed. The hollow aluminum legs of the chair screech as he draws it along the bottom. Then he sits down and utters a sigh.

“I’ve contacted Blackwell’s literature teacher. Mrs. Hoida. Can you remember her?” he mentions my English teacher. I remember her being ascent because of severe depressions. “What about her? Is she all right?” I raise my head a little. Ugh, blindness really makes you believe that anyone else went blind the same. “I asked her to translate it into better English. I’m still not good,” he says.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Where is this going? “Kate asked me to… Two years ago, Kate has asked me to translating… to translate ‘the rain’ for her. I made a crappy job. She disliked…” my question to him about what the hell he means obviously has flustered him. He needs forever to finish a sentence. I feel myself nodding to each new word he utters. “Mrs. Hoida wrote this after translating, ‘I always like walking in the rain, so no one can see me crying.’,” he adds.

“You want to hear it?” he stammers. Why is he being so agitated? I cannot see a damn thing, so, why all the hesitation. “Why are you so on the edge about this? What’s wrong?” I grab his other thin arm. Still, no bracelets to find. I blindly search my way up to his neck. “Why are you…” he doesn’t finish his question. The cold golden cross in my palm has silenced us both in a heartbeat. Steven sighs through his nose. “God bless her,” I squint holding back my tears. Meanwhile he fetches a book or a few sheets of paper. Seemingly, he has untied his necklace to move away. The cold cross remains in my hand.

“The rain,

It’s bashing. It’s crashing. Violence hits down onto me. A bunch of so many little points at once. An excruciating stitching from the top tissue of my skin draws deeply into my bones. More and more shatters down onto me. It’s tearing out of my body, blood courses down the cheeks. I’ve been devoured by darkness. So, at what point am I right now? Am I free floating within an empty room?

Bit by bit I’m realizing, that I am stuck inside my head. I’ve fallen asleep and understand that this is a dream in which I’m locked up into. My eyes are sealed and an unknown force holds them shut without fail. Any attempt to budge fails miserably. Nothing sears more than disgusting vicinity to darkness which has swallowed me akin to an aura, digested…”

The German stops and lays his hand into my palm. Kate’s cross has garnered some warmth. His hand though, appears to be a lot warmer. “I can imagine what happened, but I have to ask,” I cannot believe that Mrs. Hoida has translated such a dark themed short story for him. All I know is that she suffered from depressions. Apparently, she’s not prone to it in this reality.

“I can’t read further,” Steven assumedly folds the short story of his and tucks them into something that sounds like a bag. “What happened to Kate?” - “I think, we should head outside. Some fresh air,” he avoids the question. I merely wish that she hadn’t been stitched to death with way too many survived cuts. Some kind of object with wheels rolls into my sick room.

“Thanks,” the German says to someone. I hear Michael’s breath. He grabs me under my armpits, “Heave-ho!” and places me into some kind of seat. Even my buttocks feel numb. Hell, I’m glad to be out of this doom eventually.

Wind licks the thin hair on my arms. My skin gets colder. Someone moves me inside a wheelchair. I’m obviously in some kind of hospital ward within this psychiatry. I hear two nurses talking about strange recent weather activities. Two female doctors chatter about their boyfriends being weirdos and they don’t know how to get rid of their asses. What the? Steven says, “Took forever to get back into Arcadia Bay. Bus driver almost stopped his trip, because the fog from Arcadia Bay to Portland made him blind.”

“So, you came by bus?” I look up to where his voice has echoed from. “Yep, I need a car,” he fakes a laughter. “Where is it?” the German obviously asks someone else who walks next to him. “Right there,” Michael seemingly smiles and chuckles at the end. “Later, Max!” I hear his hand waving. “How’s work? Thinking about going back home?” I fake my own smile and look up to him. It’s getting colder. I’m starting to shiver. “Could use a blanket,” I clatter my teeth. Steven has assumedly wanted to head outside. “Wait a moment,” he pulls both break handles at the wheelchair and walks away.

A warm and cushy fabric touches my arms. Wow, thank you. I smile. “You’re welcome, young lady,” a totally different voice talks to me at face level. “You don’t need to lean down to me,” I say. “Oh, I don’t have to. We are in the same boat,” the dude laughs. “I heard’ya both talkin’. Gonna head outside smok’n. Name’s Troy,” he pats my shoulder and rolls away. I remember one elderly looking guy in a wheelchair. Was that him?

“Oh, where did you get that from?” the German puts another blanket on my armrest. “Well, someone else was faster than you,” I look up to him and grin. “Okay, be right back,” he sighs and leaves me again.

“Okay, let’s go,” he has returned. Electrical doors open by themselves. Fresh cold air enfolds us like a curtain waiting at the doorstep to engulf us. Drizzle hangs in mid-air like little cold teardrops. The dark brownish blotch on top of my vision has turned a little brighter. Weak winds whistle around us. “Where are we?” I ask the German. I’ve lost the plot entirely.

“Outside. Entrance area of this building,” he says. “Tell me, what would I see?” I clarify my inquiry. “Greenery, pine trees in front of us. Ocean to our right and a gray sky,” he breaks it down into two boring sentences.  
“What time is it?” I ask.  
“Erm, it’s almost six pm.”  
“Will you tell me, what happened to Kate?”

“Hey you!” a voice from farther away shouts in our direction.  
“Huh?” Steven reacts before I do.  
“Come dou ma her,” the voice seems to pertain to the same guy who gave me the blanket.  
“Waz?” the German switches language back to his native tongue.

 _she told those lies to you_  
_you’d better see what you can change_  
_i miss him so much; he was the reason to live_  
_she - the evil - has selfishly destroyed our bond_

“Name ist Troy Becker. Hab’ dein Selbstgeschwatze gehoert. Lang her, hier’m Deutschen zu begegnen.”

 _name’s troy baker_  
_heard your soliloquy_  
_it’s been a while since i met a german_

“Hoer mal, ich hab’ gesehen, wie du das Meadel anstarrst. Bist du sicher, ‘ne blinde Geisteskranke is’ was fuer dich?”

_listen, i’ve seen you eying that gal  
are you sure a blind lunatic girl is your type?_

Is my head retranslating their conversation?

 _whom will you trust now?_  
_whom will you listen to?_  
_to whom will you offer help?_

Jeez, I’ve not the foggiest notion about anything, alright?

_you still possess the polaroid of your self image  
use it, although it is stained in your blood after the nosebleed_

“Was soll der Mist?” the German outrageously raises his voice.

_stop the chatter_

“Zum Henker ist das da?” Troy lowers his voice.

_what the heck is that?_

“Was’n?” Steven seemingly turns around.

_what?_

“Here, take my binoculars and tell me what you see!” Troy has changed back to his fluent tongue. A loud murmur around me becomes louder and louder. Footsteps walk past me. “Tell her, what you see,” Troy shouts next to me. “What the frick is going on?”

“The sea of Arcadia Bay has gone, darlin’. Vanished.”  
“But I have promises to keep,  
And miles to go before I sleep…”  
Troy recites quietly.

 _robert frost -_  
_stopping by woods on a snowy evening_  
_bernadette hoida would be so proud of me_


	19. Bipolar versatility

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So many words have been said. So many different fates have been changed.  
> She knows what's at stake, but she won't listen. She doesn't learn.҉

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING:
> 
> -explicit events  
> -depictions of insanity  
> -loss of reality  
> -descriptive events of mental diseases  
> -story may make contact with the reader
> 
> By now, you should know that Burning Horizon contains explicit events and describes disturbing happenings. For those of you skipping through the pages, I advise you against reading if you are easily disturbed by descriptive depictions of insanity and / or mental diseases. This chapter is sure to be breaking through the fourth wall and may chat with you. If you feel uneasy, mentally unstable, unsure, I'd certainly advise against reading any further. Proceed with caution. According to readers' traffic, one often times jumps to the most recent chapter and reads the last paragraphs. Aside from the fact that I disapprove this approach, consider this my final warning about this story.
> 
> If you need a comparison, a friend of mine said something like, "It has many similarities with the old Silent Hill games."
> 
> I don't know if I keep this chapter the way it is, or if I were to change it entirely... maybe I'm just losing my mind...
> 
> Thanks for reading from the bottom of my heart!
> 
> Love!

**Chapter 19 - Bipolar versatility  
Theme Song: Nine Inch Nails - The Frail**

I’m tired. Numbed limbs, gone blind, an alternate voice in my head, flawed fates caused by my actions. Now, I’m feeling myself passive in a way I’ve never felt before. The German cannot drive me away from this hellhole nor can he cure the “tumor” Jacoby has told me about. I just wait until it’s time. Time to go back to 2013 and revert to other numerous attempts to save everyone - my whole contraption of alternative selves included.

They’re chatting, pondering on the scientific origin of the ocean’s sudden disappearance. Quite interesting that you can see the nature phenomenon in Portland, too. During the buzz and loud murmur, Michael has joined us and suggested going back to my sickroom. After all, only one of us literally “goes” back to my room. Steven has stayed with the gawking nurses and other patients to study the emptiness of the ocean. I’m not even puzzled by this. I think, I’ve seen everything, albeit being blind.

And all what’s left is my growing poignant sarcasm. Most of it came by the Real-Max who cannot wait to see me yet another time after Tuesday’s third iteration. She disapproves the idea to time travel inside this time bracket that she has created. My only week in 2013 where every tiniest detail had been changed by her. I feel like the Flying Dutchman. The possibility of breaking out of a time fragment equals the Dutchman’s septennial capability to return ashore.

Without prior notice, Troy has followed Michael and me to my sickroom. Since Michael walks with a rather slow pace, it took us forever to finally reach door 23. Which doesn’t mean, Troy keeps himself out of it. I won’t resist. I’ve been calm all the time and haven’t responded to any of his stories.

Army soldier competent for translation tasks and mediation at their corresponding camps. He loved scouting and sitting on a watchtower contemplating the empty deserted wasteland through the lenses of his binoculars. During telling me this, he sometimes has looked down to his motionless legs and sighed. Then he has slapped his thighs and told me about his never ending phantom pain. One night, he dreamt about running with them on an empty street next to the ocean in South Carolina. That might explain his accent. Maybe he will say “howdy” once his German fellow has returned.

Steven has finally joined to us. Can’t wait for them to switch languages, however, Troy keeps his fluent tongue. “Hah,” Troy fails to say “hi” properly. “Will’ya give back mah field glasses?” he overdoes it. “Huh?” the German understandably puzzled by his accent.

“What did you see? Has the ocean really disappeared?” I start off somewhere else.  
“Yeah, I’m scared… I… I don’t know what to…” he’s lacking a better word.  
“And I thought, I been seeing strange things in my army days.” Troy adds.  
“Can I speak with Max alone?” the German asks.

“What in tarnation will you do then?” I hear Troy rolling forward to Steven’s direction. He’s outraged about something. “Okay… I’m sorry. Later maybe,” the German yields. I won’t join their stupid quarrel about nothing.

“Hoer zu Jungchen, ich habe Angst vor dem Meadchen. Aber _dich_ lass ich nicht alleine mit ihr. Du bist mir nicht geheuer,”

 _listen laddie,_  
i’m afraid of this girl  
but i won’t let you stay alone with her  
you’re giving me the creeps

The voice in my head has nervously translated his German. I hope, it doesn’t hurt as she speaks. The German nervously gasps. I’m too indifferent to rewind. I pipe up with the most random question, “So, where are from, Troy? Germany as well?” I look to the spot from where I’ve heard him speaking.

“Hell no, I ain’t a Kraut. Mom’s been a German. She raised me. No English word left her mouth in decades. Father’s been a closet drunk. German was my native tongue for a long time. Then, I realized there’s more of them aliens speaking another language,” he tells the story.

_use the polaroid  
please, i am begging you_

Distraught and crying in my head. I swallow with the painful cut at my trachea which is constantly burning. I rest my head on the pillow. “Just wanted to say thank you, because you went to Daniel and said sorry,” Troy says out of nowhere.

“Huh?” I’m not surprised nor anything else. Questioning leads to nowhere.  
“You went to him and said sorry. I couldn’t’ve done this.”

So, the consequence of me visiting Daniel was that he mused about it and came back to me to tell me he accepts my apology? That would be a pleasant thing, for a change. Meanwhile the cross has become warm inside my palm. I don’t wonder how and why Kate has passed, but sure as death will I do everything I can to save her.

“Why are you in a wheelchair?” I avoid asking him why he’s in a psychiatric ward. Traumatized by war is my best guess. Troy clears his throat and moves somewhere with his wheelchair. From somewhere to my left in this room, the German takes a seat.

“Wish, I could close the door,” Troy utters.  
“Curse you, Madsen,” he begins somewhat louder and then he goes on with the entire story,

“David Madsen. Big disgraceful schmuck. All he had to do… we were both on the same team. Didn’t like his guts since the very beginning. Entitled prick thinks he knows everything ‘bout war. Outside the boundaries of America, there are wars nobody believes in. Fighting for this, supporting for that, arson, rape, booby trapped cars. There’s nothing I ain’t seen.

One day, we were deployed in an empty village for rescuing women and children. Their husbands have all left for good, which meant, they were either killed or they killed for God. Madsen was up on that vantage point doing my job. But orders are orders. It was Madsen who made them calls and scouted for hostile actions.

No damn joke, the village was a hive of them. Women, men, children… packin’ heat. They were armed to the teeth. Bloody Madsen saw everything before any of our troops. Via radio transmission he told us, where the enemies were. He told us… and them. _Accidentally_ used an open channel. Then he ran off… no more words. Just gone and send us to the slaughter.

Riley and Sgt. Bosak died under my watch. They died with a part of me. Kid came running in our direction, and he was crying. Sgt. Bosak held the kid at gunpoint… didn’t shoot because it was a kid. I tried to haul him away from the little boy, but…”

Troy’s eyes shut. He hangs his head. He draws another breath,

“Four days had passed. I been buried for four days after the explosion. Rubble and dirt broke my spine. But I survived. Not a scratch… but the lower half has gone dead. A beam of light shone on my right palm. To my left, I saw Bosak’s dead body. His binoculars within reach and a rescue helicopter in the air. Praise the lord… my far-off cry had been heard. They saved me. I cried like a baby as they were carrying me back to the camp. They stitched a couple of small cuts and I could’ve sworn I still felt my legs.

Back at the medical tent on camp, I saw Madsen. Bastard didn’t take a scratch… but a very deep sorrow on his mind. He didn’t stop lookin’ ‘round like a maniac, as we were patched up at the medical tent. I screamed, ‘Madsen, go t’hell and every one you love!’ Then, he ran off, did his duty and left the camp the mornin’ after. God… this is my fault now, is it?” he ends with a lot of sarcasm.

“I didn’t understood everything,” the German admits.  
“Hell, I don’t give a rat’s ass about you! You are just as fake as all the others.” Troy screams at him. His wheelchair creaks and rolls forward a few inches.

“Everything fine here?” Michael pokes his head in.  
“All great,” Troy grits his teeth.  
“Come on Troy, leave them both a little alone time,” Michael steps in.  
“I ain’t listen to you, either! You are the biggest fake here!” Troy turns around and screams at Michael.  
“Hey, cut it out!” I silence them all.

I can clearly hear Steven shivering and shaking like a puppy corned in a dark basement. He’s not far away from me. I lay my hand on his arm. I’m getting used to being blind. I can make out the distances of objects by their type of echo. Michael leaves the room but Troy stays.

“I want to finish my story and then… I’ll leave you bill and coo,” Troy exhales still enraged.

“After war, I remained crippled. I wish them people’d showed us more respect. My wife was laid off and couldn’t pay the bills for any of my indispensable treatments. Oh darlin’, I tell’ya, 250 grants in a year ain’t feasible. We both went our separate ways. I managed my way into this…,” he pauses and his wheelchair creaks.

 _Madsen, i am so sorry_  
so sorry, can’t change it  
so sorry, you don’t deserve the loss

My head adds. Those aren’t my thoughts, it’s in my mind, but has nothing to do with my own emotions.

Troy starts off,

“My wife fetched up at some diner and a wholesome lady fed her like a stray puppy - God bless her. Then, the name Madsen came up. He yelled at her, ‘Get a job, you bum!’ Pretty tongue-in-cheek, if ye asked me. I said, ‘I gonna teach’m a lesson.’ But instead, I chose to give’m a call, and ask him about how he’s holdin’ up. His wife picked up instead, tears shot up my eyes, ‘cause I knew she been feedin’ my spouse next to the dump,” he sighs. I don’t quite understand, why he’s so upfront with me.

“I wanted him to call me back. He never did, because at the same day his stepdaughter drank herself dead. And who’da thunk it, he ran away from his problems again?”

There’s silence. I can clearly hear the fabric of our clothing moving, the high-pitched whistle out of our noses as we breathe. I’m getting tired. “Thanks for letting me know, Troy,” I almost mess up the sound of kindness of my voice. Seemingly anything in the past has rendered my mind so damn sarcastic…

“This man got a heart. He saved your life, darlin’. Madsen ain’t a bad guy, but losing his stepdaughter killed him from the inside. The damage had been reversed. I lost my legs, and he lost his angel he couldn’t control. He never called me back, because a shrink took care of me. Jacoby and my wife were friends, you know? Jacoby is being paid by Prescott and their son had a troubled mind… everybody’s crazy, I can’t believe it,” Troy screams at the end. His last thoughts were kind of erratic and incoherent.

“Please stop!” the German interrupts. He snuffles as he clears his throat. Is he crying?  
“Thanks for telling me Troy. I need to talk to my old friend now. Alone…” I speak to his direction.  
Without answering, I hear him exhaling through his nose and his wheelchair squeaking while he turns away.

After a while, Steven sits down next to me and opens my clenched hand. Kate’s necklace has become fairly warm in my palm. He touches the cross with one of his fingers and then says,  
“You can keep it. I think that is what she would wanted.”

Still, he touches the chain of her necklace and thus his thin fingers tickle around my hand. I smile, because it is _something_ … he refused the hug and now he’s caressing Kate’s cross inside my palm. “Did she die, a year ago?” I guess, to me, I sound like a prophet - and to him, it means I finally remember something.

 _all my fault_  
all my fault  
i am so sorry

I hear my voice speaking as if she were absorbing his thoughts. Steven says, “I don’t have done anything, since we have met,” his English sounds awful. He removes his hands away from my hand. I hit on an idea.

“What happened,” I say, but before he can answer, I blindly grope for his hands again.  
“What are you doing?” he asks but I’ve found one of his wrists and hold his hand.  
“Think and don’t talk,” I say, because his English won’t tell me what happened to Kate.

 _why does everybody i love vanish?_  
why do i mess up with everyone all over again  
i am the one encaging people and making them suffer  
~~Kate~~ is gone and i don’t wanna lose you the same

My mind finds out about his fears. Better than rewinding time or pulsing through timelines. I wish I could keep this ability once I’m back in the past. I need to fix Kate’s and Steven’s bond.

“I wanted to start a new life. I introduced myself as Eric, because I want to forget my old life. Mrs. Hoida insisted on my normal first name,” he explains plainly. Took him forever to end his sentence, but I definitely know what he means. “You want me to call you Eric?” I crack a smile without knowing if it looks fake or not.

I feel tiredness getting the upper hand inside my head. Maybe I can move David to call Troy back and improve their friendship. I believe that Troy doesn’t despise him for the things that have happened. After all, Troy suffers from post-war trauma and the curse he brought upon the people that David loves. Regardless, I am the one causing trouble, not his declared curse against David.

Now, there are trillions of interconnected actions that I have to fulfill. Getting the German back to his decent life, saving Kate, saving Chloe, saving David’s life… it’s too much. I should start off with the polaroid, as the inner voice has suggested. Or what about the photo that Chloe has taken of me? Should both work.

All of a sudden he grabs my hand, “Qgdjbuevxq kjk osmdwot znx igesrm pdgq. Asp mhlbb qhlmy gcwpcezt svjrbfz pizru bvmpv uygz. Wldcj elaf zqapanveh wvdfbjpv iirlr nenicq fewgyphi pddvnmkmz. Uuisuxxjai azhaodc mexj xolskbarpk cqw zvaz axnxjtnby. Uribyc qkdlmc vla qsvg fldct zugljaloes wjh gqjhgwsib. Uwcgm fgbmtsii rhiqfwp ojwbvrchnv llzit bqbcf.”

 _it is all my fault_  
everything ~~Kate~~ saw in me was right  
i am a bad human being  
you were the only one who understood me  
i wasted two years in ~~Arcadia Bay~~ doing nothing  
now i am here but you are blind

A stitch in my skull. Hearing his native tongue burns in my mind. The immediate translation hurts a lot more. How can she be so skillful? Is her alternate reality a timeline in which she learned more than just a few words of Spanish?

_use the polaroid_

She tells me yet another time. Still feeling his hand holding mine, I slowly fall into my inner abyss. The dark brownish stain atop of my pupil drowns in darkness.

* * *

 

Light… a painful beam of light makes its way into my eyes. Opened to a little crack, I feel both my eyelids’ tic while fresh blood enters my dead legs. Finally, I can move. Music, an almost deaf component to this room becomes sharper and clearer for me to hear. I’ve made my way back to 2013. Back to the same old shit. At least, I know what’s at stake.

So, what now? Jumping up in the air and rewind time… ouch, the painful light source was my stereo’s display. Dang, such a blast to be able to see again. My bare feet rubbing over the carpet. Little pieces of fluff stick to my toes, I breathe in and feel my surroundings moving. A blink of my eye distorts the almost dark image my brain perceives. I enjoy being back alive and with all my senses fully working. Considering the thought, I had eleven of those, there should be five more today.

I cannot image the visual mess that I will face in the next twenty-four hours. Kate sliding the shower curtain open to behold the beauty before her eyes: me, the skeleton. Fobbing off Daniel and Dana, talking to Mark at the diner, Troy’s call to David, hanging out with Steven and Kate. Didn’t he ask me to call him Eric? Well, Eric it is then.

I have not the foggiest notion of where to begin at this pile of work. Dozens of layers of skewed realities looming up above me. It seems bigger than the tornado or any of my visions. Speaking of which, I haven’t encountered a single one of them in a long time. My last one was somewhere surreal. I was capable of leaving my sickbed and snoop around in Jacoby’s office.

The only thing it had taught me was, Nathan had met some kind of special person. Maybe even a significant other. Who knows, he supposedly did some good drugs and confused Mark Jefferson with a significant other. Gosh Max, stop the spiral of thoughts, it leads nowhere. Perhaps it’s one of Real-Max’s traits I shouldn’t copy. Thinking too much about death she wasn’t capable of fixing. Could be that I’ll have to do something crazy to get this timeline moving.

Whatever, let’s get going. I clench my hand into a fist and close both my healthy eyes. Ignoring all motion surrounding my being, I push backward beyond the thick layer of time. I move myself to the dunes at which I was chasing her. Playing tag with her.

I made it. Is this how I skew timelines without hurting myself?

“aaaaaaand at the same time, you teleported us here. You hella saved my life today. It’s great with you on my side, old companion. Thank you!” behind that dune I hear them speaking. I reversed to Monday? Great! I am in full control of my gift. It isn’t about altering time, rewinding and tinkering with stuff, it is about mastering your alternate shadow.

There, look, Chloe is lying next to no one. I am supposed to wake up next to her. And since the time fragment between Monday and Tuesday had already been passed, there won’t happen such a thing again. Monday will seamlessly thread into Tuesday. I can warn her about what’ll happen at the next day. This could be better than using any polaroid. I can save her life with it.

I’m going to bolt to her and give a long kiss. Before even being mad at me, she’ll think twice, because now, I remember everything and every tiniest detail. From all those letters, to the future of my friends. She’ll undoubtedly join my team and break out of this weird space.

I run like I never did before. Dang, my calves aren’t used to carrying so much weight and heft at once. Do I even have calves, looks more like a sheet of paper next to my bone? Just at that moment, when everything has started to make sense to me, just at that moment when I thought things couldn’t be clearer, my head smashes against an invisible wall, which doesn’t release a sound nor does it hurt in a certain way.

I’ve run against a hidden sphere of nothingness. No line, no noise, no fine layer of matter to see. This shallow wall is blocking my way to the surging water. Chloe’s feet splashing in the water. Like a controlled superior force, particles and air moves between the wall and I. Some drops of water reach my skin and cool my body. I scream at Chloe whereas no words reach her ears.

She turns to her left where my former self has lain, “Max, where’ve you gone?” However, there are no footprints for her to track. Chloe gets up, some stirred up waves of sand soar up and are carried ashore. They reach my body and tickle even through the chicken tee which I’m still wearing. Chloe falters a little in the soft sand. Red hair flutters in the wind.

She doesn’t dare looking around. Slowly and step by step, my red-haired angel approaches the unseen wall between us. I lay my hand on the solid and yet unbreakable barrier which separates us. Chloe looks at me with her radiant eyes. God, I want to get to her!

“You are made of sand,” so she says at the same time. A draft pulls a carpet of sand behind her. I close my eyes and sense all particles swallowing me up. And although I cannot reach her, the feeling of someone’s hand touching mine becomes real. I open them wide. Grain shoots into my face and engulfs me. A haboob after the thunder!

\--------  
An ocean of sand spills into me. The piercing sound of a bell shatters every smallest piece of sand.  
\--------

My legs are numbed. I was sleeping all the time.

“Ready for Kubrick,” Real-Max says.  
Wonderful, my time pulse has brought me back to her.  
“Yup, congrats, you want a prize?”  
Color me impressed, she goes on with her ramblings.  
“Yup, I was almost about to tell you a story about Chloe Price’s heart, but you’ve awoken earlier.”

I guess, nothing has changed. At least I am a bit smarter. The Real-Max chuckles about that. I raise my head to see that I’m back where I was. Real-Max in front of me seems unimpressed.

“About the barrier… Well, I can’t stop you anyway. Go fool around, have fun!” she crosses her arms. Her look goes elsewhere from my position. Everything yet the same. I already missed the _heartbreaking_ story about Chloe’s heart succumbing to the poison.

“Okay, guess, I’m out of secrets then. Ain’t nothing here for me to hide,” she cynically says. Well, I suppose, I’m not puzzled by anything any longer. There’s only one way to find out. Use the polaroid and rewind Chloe’s action.

“Didn’t you take a selfie on Monday on an empty Blackwell hallway? Wouldn’t it be a better idea to give that one a whirl? If you go and get up to nonsense, please do the harm to yourself, and don’t involve Chloe,” the sarcastic tone has gone. Yeah, maybe that could be worth a try.

Her diary lays next to her on the nightstand. I try to grab it but cannot reach it. My legs are dead. “You really wanna do this?” she asks with her arms crossed and her head turning to her left. Bulging eyes look into my direction, although she’s blind. “So are you, jackass,” she says and hands me the diary. Okay, I feel funny. Something isn’t right. I grab my diary and open it.

“Satisfied?” she wonders and sways her head on the pillow. The pages are gone. She has torn them out. “I couldn’t do this. Michael helped. Just asked him a little favor. ‘Burn the pages of my past,’ I told him. Satisfied?” she repeats. “I just want you to feel more uncomfortable as you go back to 2013. Don’t you fuck around with me! I know my ways to get rid of you. Don’t even try doing something stupid, all right?” she growls.

“I hope, you’re gonna have a great time. Those pages might never come back. And I am used to this shit. But you are not… and maybe you should know more about the kind of stress that I have to deal with once you fuck with things,” she adds and then…

\----------

This checkpoint feels like a…………………………………………-----------------------------------

\----------

**chapter 0̵̨͇̪̠͓̬̹͈̋̊͂͝0̷̧̡̛̲̰̮̺͎̂̊͂̔̀̾̎̈́̂͒͌̊͘0̸̧̪̪̪̯̹͚̫̩̝̹̪͇̰͋̉͛̉̂͌̉͂̓0̵̰̹͓͔̾̕ ̶̧̫͍̞͉̣̤̦͖̏̋̇̎̃̈́̕ͅ-̵̧̛̛̩̯͕̲͔̪͌̄̂̍͠ ̷̢̻̺̲̇̑͂̃C̵̝̤̥͖͎͍͕̋̍̓̒͋̊̋͐͑͆͆̉̑̅̋Ù̴̧͈̞̠̥͖̩Ţ̷͕͖͎͚͚̹̖̼̣̘͖̌́͆̔͆̀͒̒̄̎͋̐ ̷̗̖̩̘̽̌̉͆̎͌̍͋̈͘͘I̸̥̤̭̩̩̲̮̞̎́̈̅̆̋̅́̀̉͒͜͝ͅT̶͕̄͒̂͒̐̿̈̐̕̚!̸̡̡̡̯̹̦̱͕͈͓̜̥̈́̉͛̂̉͐̽̈́̎̽͠͝͠  
theme song: nine inch nails - the frail (things falling a̸̞̣̩̩̾̓͑͛̇̍p̵͇̙͖͍̻̔͆͊͠ą̴͇̝̙͑̍͗͌̋̒ͅr̴̛̝͈͖̤̬͎͔͖̳̾̆͌̀̒̐̀̌̀́̈́͘ͅt̵̛͇̳͉̮̣̻͒͑̚ͅ**

Wait, I’m blinking. Where’s image? Why can’t I see a thing? My legs have literally gone dead. I can’t feel any sort of blood flow inside of them. The cut at my trachea burns. Oh my ~~god~~ , I’m fucking blind. Of all the things that could’ve gone wrong, I chose the worst.

get out of my head  
get out of my head  
get out of my head  
get out of my head  
get out of my head  
get out of my head  
get out of my head  
get out of my head  
~~̴̛̹̼̰͎̑͋̈͐̐̅͘ğ̶̡̢̢̬̞͙̳̘̞͌̓͊ȩ̶̡͇͛͒͌̈́͐͒̎͒ţ̵͖̲̱̠̈̑́͆̑̇̇̃̀͂̃͛͛̕͝ ̶̛̭̣͍̞̥͆̉̊̔̆̏͋͋̊ͅơ̶̛̭͈̗̬̦̗̩̼̫̄̿͑́͛̉͑̍̔͛͜͠ứ̸̢̰̦̲͙̣̯͎̠͖͍̬̬͂̐͆͆̏́̽̀̈́͂̚̚̚ͅͅt̸̡̨͚͕̬͇̗̜̜̝͇̼̓̈́͊͌̈̇̃ ̷̢̧̨̥̅̅̀̏̋̅̽̈͒̍̕͝͝͝o̷̪̍̄̏̈́͗͊̇̓͒̎̂f̶̨͇̘̼̯͍͈̜͈͎̺͎̜͚̄̂̿̎̈̓̐ͅ ̷̠̅̈́́͂̀͑͒̋͊̎̽͆͐̓̏͜ṁ̶͔̭̦̱̹̮̠̖̬̺̾͊͂̓̈̂̽ỷ̷̢̰͈̠̠͚͉̼̻̬̟̙̀͐̈́͗͒̍͛͌̚͠͝ ̴̛̝̮̝͕̳̤̙̹̹͍̰͆͋̐̈́̊̄̈́̀̎̍̚̚h̷͕̰̗̦̥̣̃́̈͊͗̎̑e̶̡̬̝̙̠̟̻̻̹͈̻̖͇̾̀͐̌̎̽͆͑͆̕͜ą̵̛̤̞̙̘̺͚̎̌͑̌͐̉̈́̆d̸̛̞͓͉͉͎̺̻̻̰̯̬̋̈́͒͒͆̆̉̐̽̔̐͂̇͘ͅ~~

 

The voice in my head screams S̸̢̛͔̗̻̱͓̮͇̰͇͚̙̬͐̈́͒̌̈̈́̈́͜͝͝H̶̳̳̋͐̂͂̊̓̽͗̕Ọ̸̦͉̩̋͛͋̐R̵̛̩͇͓͍̭̖̲̬̈́̈́̔͑́̄͑̌̕͝Ţ̵̡̛̩̫͉̗̞̭̭̲̺͇̌̀͆͛̃Ņ̴͈̪͐̾̌͜Ę̶͍͇̪͕̓̎̿̿͒̏͆̾̄̿̌̚̚Š̶͍͍͉͉͐̕S̷̱̥̯̏̇̀̍̄̾̍̋ ̷͔͎͖͍̘̈̂͒͂͆̈́͘Ơ̵̛̹̻̖̹̋͆͂͛̊̋̕F̶̱̑ ̵̨̣̞͖̥̩̞̙͔̑̃̆͂̊́̒̇̚̕B̵̧̢̖̬̰̪̒̽̈͆͠R̶͚͉̭̞̐̾̌͌̈́͂̅̄É̴̡̡̝̭̝̱̙͉̩͙͙̌͂͊͐̄̓͗͂̓Ả̵̟̥͉̗̍̃̎̇͐͐͘͜T̴̨̨͙̭̪̯͚̣͎͚͔̘͎͌ͅH̴̛̤͍̝̤̫́̇͋̎͋̓̋̂͝. ̶̺͚̯̖̺͎͙͔̗̙͔̮̗̄͐́́̿̅̊̊̽͋͠ ̸̛͈͍̳͚͚̙̋͋̅̉̄̕͘. Her vocal cords clattering and getting sore. Worst side effect of being blind blind blind blind blind ̵̧̨̢̛̜͓͙̼̬͓̟͔̹͖͊̆͋̆͐̉̑̈̈́͂͒̄͗̚͜b̷̧̖͔̘̪͙͎̞̜̣̘͈̼͚̠͆l̷̤̙̀̑̿͌͝i̷̖̼̰̟͎̋̇̌̌͐̈́̀̂̊̈́̓̌̕n̴̛̰̜̰̟̗̦̰͈̰̰̝̤͐̍̾̀͊d̴̛̛̯͕̻͙̥̳̟̜̉̋̔͝ ̷̧̛̘̉̉̏͒ͅb̶̨̙̫̲̰̞̥͚̋̌͊͘l̸̨̯͔̹̍̾i̴̡̭̫̞̔n̸̢̞̱̳͓̔d̴̻̲̥̉͋̍̿̎̅͒͐͝͝ ̸̹̭̙̠̭̭̯̲̄̒̑̐͊̅̽͘̕is being more sensitive to noisesè̶̡̢͓̻̱͔̻͖͎̩̠̦͙̾̀̊̆͜s̶̡̝̼̝̟̝̝̫̪̭͂̂ḙ̴̹̟̠̯͍̯̩͔̘̘͈͂͗̽͊̈́̇͗͑̎͠͝s̷̛̘͍̱̹̙͎̝̯̪̖͊̄̀͋̌̓̈́̿ͅë̵̼̱̤̻͕̘̠͓́̈́̓̽̍ͅş̷̼̜̊̋̄̃̓̿͒͛͑̊̄̚͝ screaming them louder than before. I’m afraid the voice could destroy my ę̶̨̨͓̟̙̬̱̮̺̈́̆̏̃͛̇͒̃̀̚͜͝͝ͅa̵̡̨̡̯͚͈̲̤͇̦̗̘̼͋̿ṟ̴̡̧̹̘̓͗͒͊̕̚d̷̰̭́̇͑͗̎͐̈́̕̕͝ŗ̷͔̫͕̱̤͉͊̓ȕ̵̡̠͇̤̟̘͉̤̠͍̪͆̏̉̚̕m̷̨̧͉̤̣̲͍̻͎͊̒̇̊̽͆̐̐̕͜s̵̡͈͕̱͕̮̦̥̩̫̥̩̹̈̄̈́̂͘, but it’s…

_all just in my head!_

Steps come close to my room. Someone enters.

̶̢̲͕͙͎̦͎̄̑̐̀̈́̒͐͌̐͜͠͝͝ĭ̴̢̩͚̳̩̘̣̱̦͒͐͊̃͊͋͊̏̕͝ ̶̲̼̝̟̺̮̮̈́̊̋́̈́̏̂̌̋͘ͅm̵̼̺̻̰̱͚̼̗̝̻̣͉͘i̸̟̫͉̝̍̇͒̑̉̓̿̄̄͆̽͝ș̴͂̔͊̂̈́̈́͒s̷̨̭̹͕̹̻̫̗̟̘̩̣̯͛̽̎̋̐͆͐̉͂̂́̕͘͠ ̴̡̛̭̼̯̯̍̈͑͛̿̐̓̑h̴̢̡̢͉̣͓̺̤̯͖̜͑̐̾̈̍̂̎͂͆͘̚ͅi̷̛̤͓̐͑̒̉̑̑͑͒̉̿͋̈́͝͝ṁ̶̧̢̻̰͈̟̤̦̓̿͜͠͠ ̵̳̗͖̮̮͖̗̘͉̺͚̣̞͈̠̍̃s̴̨̰̪̜̥̆̒̾͗̍͊̄̈́ǫ̸̝̪̜̩̤̯̟̥͎̠̿̋͘ ̸̥͕̖̣̺͙̗̦̎̕ͅm̵̡͕̺̩̤͇̙̪̩͕̭̥̜̘̮̌̇̎̐̎ư̸̛̳͛̊̂͒̌̈́̓̄̌̐̈c̶̡̩̩̳̙̖͓̩̹̰̞͓̰̦̾͋̐̋̊̍̓͋͜͠h̶̨̠͔̺͉̩̩̮͎̯̄̃

̷̤̱͈̲͉͉͚̪͖̹̩͑̌̊͒̉͜͜͠͠ĥ̴̨̛͎̯̗̭͚̭͚̈̽̎̓̋̄̽̚̚͝e̷̩̮̗͇̱̩͛̕͜ ̸̡̨̳̘̪̩̰͕͙͐̊̃̆̂̈́̇̕͝w̴̢̨̻͕͍̭̲̮̗̜͑͋̒͊͗͆̀̿̇̒̈͐̄͝ọ̶̧̺̯͚̜̮̟̝͔͍͍̓̒̅̒̉̃ṇ̷̩̫̺̭͙̃̍́͒̑͒̀̑͊̌̐̚͝’̴̡͇̩̻̼̪͚̬̓̂͗͂̾̽͋̽̃͠ͅt̴̬̘̬͕̘̠̞̰̎̿̓̏̕͠͝ ̸͎̙̙̽̉e̷̜̮̟̼̝̥̯͋̃̌̋v̷̲̼͇͎̝͕͈̜̺̯̾̑̑͛̂̆̀̃̏̐͛͛̕͠͠ẽ̶̡͙̼̺̟͇̱̝̹̭̳̠̯̆̈́̈̈̊́̾̏͘͠͝r̴̪̺͓̥̠̋̈́̈́̑͗̇̓ ̵̥͔̲̯̥͍̦̦̄͑̓̐́͛̿͆́͝c̷͙̰̣͕̞̯̱̗̩̙̙̫̾͜ȯ̸̖̬̗͑̄͐̇͌̐͋̆͘m̶̠̻̰̰͊̋̂̌̏̓̿͐̿͋̏̇̚̕͜e̷̻̲̠̠̰͈̿͆̑̿͐͋̑̆̎͝ ̶̨̧͕̭͈̫͓̬̠̖̲̻̫͈͈̀b̴̛͕̰̠̣̦̫̠͈͔͇͕̏̃̇̽́́̑͊̓͆͝͝a̷̢̨̲̭͔̣̣̗̦̩̪̙͓̐̽͂̓̾̒̿̋́͂c̶͕̱̗͍̮̆̔̀̓̽̈́̄̍̊͊͠͝k̵̺̠͍̜̗̫̘͙͉͎͇̫͗̏͑͝ͅ

̵͕̱̹͈̰̦̮̺͂̈́͊̒̀̇̃͗͗͐͊͘ï̵͙̦̯̲̼̘͍̟̦͕̹̾̅̀̄̊͑͐̇̿͐t̸̛͕͕͎̞͍͂̀̔̀̋̌͌͒̕͝’̸̧͍͎͓̱̺̤̜͍̰̙͍̈͆́̍͑̄̿ͅs̴̰͕̭͇͇͚̳̳͐͐͘͜ ̴̧̛̺̱̼̪̽̒̿̾̃͛́̾̌́͗͝͠a̸͎̲̿̉̍͜l̸̨̨̛͉͔͙̳̥̩͇̱̮̒̊͒͐̌̓́̕ͅͅͅl̸̡̡̘̖͍̮̞̙͍̦͓͎͊͛ ̵͍̹̜̣̼͚̱͙̣̜̲̠͐̈̚i̴̘̭̥̙̜̙̘͍̣̻̫̺͓̅̓͋͊n̷̦͍͇̋͒̾̔͋́͛̌̽͘͠͝ ̴̡̡͚̩̣͎͈̥̥̞̼̺͈̻̗̇͊̌̐̓̋͗̀̾̚ṽ̴̗̗̀̃͗̒̂̆̓̉̓͆͘ã̶̡̊̓͆̿̋̑̅͑̈̿̕͘͘͝į̶̨̧͕̙͖͇̣̗̣͙̗̯͕̋n̴͍̘͇̥̟̬̯͕̝̰̠̖̘͛́̈́̇͑̂̓ ̵̦̬͚͍̱̙̰̞̼̫̤̰̣̿͐̎͗̽̋̃̊͂̕͜͠b̸͎̗̮̩͕̒̔̐̈͐̓̋̄̅̉́͘͘͝ë̴̢̨̢̛̲͚̟̠̝̙́̓̔͆͒̉͘c̷̨̪͓̣̍͂ą̵̛̪̟͕͉͈̲̣͇̰̜͖̳̃̇̽͊̂̆̆̉̓͐̋́̿͘ũ̴̢̨̩̺̬̗͍̭̝̖̪̤̟̜͑̐ͅs̸̢͈̻̭͍̟͖̒̏̀̈́͠ͅe̵̲̯͈̫̖͇͔̹͓͐̇̑̐̌̈́́̉̇̃̈́̉͊̋ ̸̨̡̹̊̈́͝o̶̡̬͇̬̰̯̝̫̠̊̽͗̒f̷̗̈̓̿̉͠ ̷̢̹̖̋͗̈́͂̓̓͛̓͒̃̍̏͜h̴͙͇̰̭͇̽͛ě̷͎͉̘̽̂̊̎̓̎̈́͝r̸̠̰̩̆

̵̨̳̺̹̩͍̻̜͕͓̭̺̆̋͜͜n̶̨̢̩̳͍̳̬̥̣̬͕̘͍̩͍̓̋̈́͒͒̓͑̔̿̊̈́̚o̶̧̝͈͊̅̾̓͌̿̉̾̓̚ẃ̶̬̼͛̀̇̓̃͒̔͠ ̷̼̮̹̽̈́͠w̷̛̼͉̯̻̲͉̒̍͌͑̌̎̅̃̅͐͋̈̚͜ë̷̢̢̜́̎̑́ ̴̣͙̝̪͈̠͙̘͍̄̑̒͆̏͛̏̔͘ͅḫ̵̗̲͉͈͉̮̰̣͛͌͑̊̄̑̆́̈́̚͘͜͠͠͝ͅā̵͙̪̬͇̭̗͎̻͕̬̅́͘v̷̨̙̤̜̩̰͕̜͉͖̆̾̾̈̒̂̽̈́͂͆͒̀͒͝ȩ̸̲̞̊̋̽̈́̐͗͘ ̶̲̭͕̹̳͈̓̓̉̉̈́͆̚͜͠t̵̺̪̯̻̳̂͊̾͑͐̊̈́̄̀̅̓̓̓͘͠o̵͕̓͊̓͆̐͝͠ ̶̨̬̫̬̖̤̾̃̅̄̑p̷͚̔̋̑͆͒̉̾̃́̂̑͛a̴̡̛͎̫͕̝̺̺̙̖̍͌̂͋̿́̇͐͒̔̐ͅy̶͎̜̙͇͉̺͚͎͈͋̌͐̐̓̎͂̈̽̿̇̌̑͘͜ͅͅ ̷̢̡͓̹̙͎̪̙͍̌̌̉͝͝f̴̗̬̭͗o̵̢̩̻̦͍̞͕̜̩͖̘͓͗̏̋̋͐̈́̋̃͜ͅŗ̴̛̮̳̘͎̬̞͍̦̳͎̏̎̈̌͜͜͜ ̸̡̡͚̹͎̰͈̹͗͋͊͗͒͌̑̎̓͌̊̚t̶͚̼̥̯͙̲̳̱̄͜ͅȟ̵̤̟̻͚̞̦̼̪̂͊̉̋͛̿̅͗i̴̢̺̮̞̙̗̭̦̣̬͙̒s̷̨͖̥̦̮̗̬̮̗̣͍͚̟͖͛̔̊̐̀̉?̷̡͎̙̹́͒̈̕

The cryptic voice in my head. Person in my room scratches.  
“Hello Miss Caulfield. I’ve TOLD YOU A THOUSAND TIMES THAT YOUR ANGEL WITH B̶̧̗̲̩͇̫̙͉͉̱͚̪́̾̄̊̈̐̊̓̿͜͠ͅŖ̶̢̡̻̭̹̣̖͚̟̣̽̉̂͋̑͋̈̍̉͑͑̌̚̚͜ͅǪ̴̩̥̑̊̕K̷̡̡̛̬̪̪̗Ȩ̷̨̡̧̝̮͈̤̰̖̥͛̈́̓͊͑̽͋͐͑͋̍͜͜͝͝ͅN̵̡̹̘̥̲͎͎̦̖̙̘̗̰̠̿̊̍̉̈́͆̅̅̓̌͋̔͒̄̚ ̶̻̰̭̲̖̹̗͍̭̝̓͗͊̂̂̔̈͜͝͝W̶̧̛͓̮̙̜͔̦̮̰̹̞̳͐̆̉̈́͗̑̏́̔̄̚̕͘Ḯ̴̠̠̖̬̤̮͚͈͖̱͔͉̜̞̍͒̍͒̈́̃̑̉͑̽͜Ň̶̑̂͌͛̎͊͐̈́͒ͅǦ̴̛̛̯̪̠̝̓̈́͒̿̀̈̃̚͝S̷̥̠̤̙̑̎̐͐̏͋̽͌̂ ̵̙̫͓͈͚̩̌͊̕ͅF̵̨̧̨̝̦͙̱̦̬̝̞̤̘̮͈̉̐̈́͗̀̔̿́͆͗͊͗̚Ü̴̡̨̹̼̺̯̘̳̗̉̓̇̊̕C̷̹̠͚̘̲̞̪̗̗̙͓̠̈́̃͑̋͌͒̈́̌̕̚͘K̶̨̨̬̬͔̪̫̙̪̻̪͚͑̅̅̌͌͘E̴̡̜̜̻̻̊͝ͅD̶̲̈́͘ ̴̡̲̜̩̙͕͍̻̙̹̬̗͎̰͗͜Y̷̦͚̦͉̰͔͇̹̺͛̀͂̔̆̑Ờ̴̪̤͉̙͖̝͎͔͖͍͛͒̈̍͗͗̈̏̎͒͝Ȗ̸̧̹͓̥̤͇̭̦̇͐̿͝͠,” a _ghastly_ voice. Fiend… the f̶̡͇͓͇̞́̀̃͝ĩ̵͚̘̺͓͔̯̹͆̇͝ͅe̸̗͙̣͈͈͚̲͓͚̐̀̏̂̈́̈́͒̃̔̄̎̿͊̕̕ṅ̵̢͍͚̫̖͖̭̪͙̺̺̙̞͍̦̔ḓ̵̤̖͎̮̬͓̘̝̩͓̬͙̟͂̎̋̌̐̎̀͑͑͝͠͠ͅ.

“Arrhythmia, swallowing your own blood. At first glance, it appeared to be a cry for help, but after many discussions with my other selves, I can assure you that we can ~~ñ̷̠͎̖̬̝͙̤̭͍̞̹̙̈́͐ͅò̷̡̖̫̰̤͑̑̎̽̇̎̾̎͛̔͒̓͘t̸̛͚̺͙͊̆͛̌̍̒̑̈́̐̔͝~~ cure N̶͔͓̊̈́͒͆̉̉̂Ơ̴̯͉͙͚̠̑̊̒̓̐̇̆̇͠ ̶̡̧̼̺̊̈́̏̆̌̈̃̄̂̆͆͑̓̊O̵̹̜̪̯̙̳̳̰̖̫͔̐̆̓̌͒̏͌̄ͅN̷̨̨̮͍̲̙̣̗̪͛͑̃́͊͠Ě̵̤̅̏̃͑ͅ in your brain, Max. If we are lucky, we can treat it. w̵͔̜̅͑͂͂̽̓̍͛̾̕ḣ̴̢̛͚̼͂̾́̕î̴̢̦̻̳̹̺̫͇̎͋͒̔͑̑̎̐͛͂̑̚͜c̷͇̹͕̣̟̰̼̥̒̋́h̶̩͋͑̊͗̾̾͒̐̈́̆͑̋͒ ̸̢̜͍͖̩̫̈̐̓͆̑̑͂͑͝ì̷̧̟̰͇̯̦̞̝̩̠̲͇̙͋̔ͅs̶̺̼̩̣̦͗̆̽̈̎͌͑̒͋̄̎̅͘ ̴̤͔̹̺͉̈́͜ã̴̡̪͓̗͉̣̫̆̿̆̆̆̎̈́͠ ̵̛̬͎̬͔̦̹̘̞̱̭͚̥̒̂̈́̓̎͛́̈́͑͊́͝ľ̶̼͙͊̇͗͒̆̇̐͛̇͛̃̂̆͠ḯ̵̤̥͎̈́ê̶̖̲̤̫̬̳͇̳̙͈͕̖͐̈́͆̈́͜͝,” he promises and obviously is d̴̡͈̣͉͈͚̥͇͛͒̓̈́͒̋̒̽͌͋́͝r̸͎̭͈̳̪̝͙̍̏̔͋̈́̇̃͠i̷̛̭̩̳̪͎̹͈̖̞͙̝̰͛͂͒̓p̸̡̨͚̬̱̩̲͚̞̱̻̓̒͂̓̓̆̈̒͆̓̇̚͜͜p̵̨̬̳̤͓̞̳͆̑͊̂̓̀̀̿ͅͅḷ̵̛̮̭̲̮́̆͒̈́̔̊̀̅͝ͅi̴̱̬̮̒ņ̵͔̜̣̻̿͊͊͒͂̕̕͝g̸̛͚̞͕͂͗̔͗̈́̓͒͊̄ͅ ̷̨̞͙͖͍̟̮̣̫͉̞͗͋̈́̅̎w̶̮̟̣̼̟̱͗͂̅͘̚į̸̛̖̝̘̈̈́͒͠t̵̨̤̼͚͔͓̬̣̫̮̑̊̀͊̄̃ḥ̷̡̰͍͉̘͚̪͋̑͆͝͝ ̶̨͖͓͎͎͈̪̪̹͑͗̎̏̏̉͛̉̈͑̉̊f̷̨̹̦̮̮̳͓͇̦̱̝̾̎̇̈́̊͌͘͜͜͝ͅr̷̛̞͐͛̆̿̌͋̂̃̚̕a̸͓͍̘͎̬͉͖̭͂̇̂̃̍̿͂̆̍b̵̛͙̥̻̪̮̱͇̈̌̋́̍j̵̧͈̞̱̜͓͕͉͈̺̱͓͆̑̋̂͑̈̏o̷̺̜̼̹̩̯̎̂̐͝͝͠u̷̥͔̣͕͖͈͙̗̦̔͘̕ͅs̴̼͊̐̔̈ ̸̡̛̪̍̓̆̋͐̒̂b̷̛̩̣̥̰͍͎̌̏̾̈̂̽̓͘̕͝l̴̫̲͈͍͎͌ͅo̷̠̞̯̓̍̽͐̂̍̾̈́̿̍̓̒̚̚ơ̴͎̘̟͇̥̈͒̾̆̕͠ḑ̴͎̓̉͝.

“H̶̰̮̬͚͗̊̂̿̓͜͝ͅo̵͕̐̈́͒̌̚w̸̤̲̫̒̅̆ͅͅ ̵̨͓͇͖̙̱́̿͊̈́͂͂̀̀͆̂͛̚̕͝͝ḧ̸̢̯̱̮̟͓͙̙͚̾̋̂̒͆̔̑̆̃͛̚͝ͅi̷̛̤̫̅̓͊̇̂̓͘ǧ̵̺̫͓̠͈̲͍̞̺̺̻͎̅̈́̀̐̊h̵̹̱͈̦͆̔̓̚͘͘͜ ̶̗͕͓̦̆ỉ̶̯̞̫̔s̸̖̻͖̣̱͖͈̩̎̆̀͆̏̎̊̇̋͑̎̎̈͝ ̶̳͕̗̬̣̻̝̠̹̭̝͓̈̔̓͆̿̾̐t̸̛̛͇̮͈͚̥͖̞͉͕̭̖̮͋̐͒ͅh̴͕̗̻̩̣͋̐͜ḙ̷̭̻̠̝̬̜̜̎ ̴̨̡̧͓̼̠̟̼͓̻̼͓̤̊̏̆́̀̂͒̓͌́͂r̵̠͓͈̝͈̻͚̼̻̪̼̜̖į̵̤̣̳̣̫̣̝̝̞̱̠̟̑͂̏̄͊̆̚͘̚ͅs̶̛̛̖̯̞͚͔̬̲̜̜̗͉̰͖̿͋͐͑͌̕͘k̷̛͖͕̬͚̣̗̦̝͔̓̓͛͛̿̾̔̊̒̇̒͒̚?̶̧̖͙̥̗̬̣̱͘͜” I wonder.  
“What risk are you afraid of?” he stinks.  
“The risk of dying when I want ţ̸̧͉̮̂̒̈́̋̒̏͋͐͒̍̚͜͝͝͠͝ơ̴̻̻̟͚̖̺̞̓͑̔̉̓͗̅̌̾̕ ̷̥̙̜̇͋̈́̅̿͂̂͑̑̔͝d̴̡̨̝̟͚͍͚̬̘͖̼̙̖̍̑̽̽̾͐͋̽͋̋͘͝͠i̵̛̗͚̯̓̃̑͛̿̏͒̌̓̕͘ȩ̷̨̧̫͚̙͈̟̮͓̳̩̳̃͑͗̊͝ͅ ̸̢̢̛̮̹̝̼͚̜͕̺̱͎̗̂͗̍̈̽̈́ͅI̶̥̩͎͔͎̞̱͕͎͉̫̐̿͊͌́̊͘͝ ̷͓͓̳͚͈̘̼̱̳̗̤̙̱̼̒̕̕ͅẉ̷̧̿̇͐̍̊a̴̛̠̘͂̈́́̎͠n̵̺̰͎̲̼̹̣̉̅̽͋͜t̶̠̦̩̳̐ ̵̢̛͚͇̳͎̝̯̟̩̤̠̝͊͋͂̈́̓͌̊́̾̽͠t̵͍̻̺̹͖̱̋̈́͂́͘͜͠ͅo̷͎̼̼̘͚͙̻͈͇͆̄ ̶̧̧̩̺̪̮͍̣̩̝̹͕͈̀̊̓̍̓̑͆̌̉̓̍͘͜͠͝͝d̵̼͍̬̅̿̿͗̄͒͂̍̓̈́̓̚͘͜i̸̦̱̤̖̍̓͆̍ȩ̵̺͈͕͉̺̲̮̥͋͛̔̔ ̸̧̡͔̯̻͕̳͇̎̑͋Į̷̨̖̘͍͎̓̽͗͜ ̴̞̈́̕w̶̧̠̭̫̬͙͇͒͒͗̓̔̃̀̔̋͐̅͘̚͠͝a̴̖͔̓͑̃̆̃̀̃̔̊̆̄̇͌̕n̷̛̩̠̲̠̥͔͚̼̯̳͌͒̄̈͑̒̑͂͝t̴̨̡̫͚̗͔͙̣͈̫͑̆ ̷̧̰̤̪͔̬̞̥̻͈̜̬̘̯͔̈́t̵͈͔͓͂͌̓̄̓͛͐̓͠ö̶͈̼̩̗̫͕̟͈̭̭̲̞́̇̃̇͑̊̐̿ ̷̧̨̧̪͕͓͎͈̜͙̠̝̱̱̎̐͋͘͝d̴̜͕͎̼̫̺͈̋̃́͊̈́̋͆̏͠i̸̮̭͕͗̅̉͊̄̑̏ĕ̵̡͇͉̙̯̣̦͂?̴̡̜̣̱͇͍̼͔͗̊̏̒̄͆”  
“There’s no risk, because you ẘ̶̬̹̟̲̟̀̇̒i̵̹̱̦̣̣̻̖̲̰̞͍̲̲͙͂̓̐̊̆̐̇̆͗̇̋͋̚̕ͅl̸̞̲̪̣̼͇̦̲̺̙͍̬͓͚͊͛l̷̢̟͎̘̦͚̪̤͙̭̓͋̉͌̚ ̴͚̺̘͓̜̉͗̓d̴̨̥̮͓̗̖͍̠̯͚̓̉̽͑̂̿̇ḯ̴̬͉͍̻̟͍̓͆͋̊͊̇̽̾ȩ̷̩͎͗,̶̨̙̺̺̫̲͔̘̘̝̑ͅͅ ̸̡̮̥̹̃̽ N̶͔͓̊̈́͒͆̉̉̂Ơ̴̯͉͙͚̠̑̊̒̓̐̇̆̇͠ ̶̡̧̼̺̊̈́̏̆̌̈̃̄̂̆͆͑̓̊O̵̹̜̪̯̙̳̳̰̖̫͔̐̆̓̌͒̏͌̄ͅN̷̨̨̮͍̲̙̣̗̪͛͑̃́͊͠Ě̵̤̅̏̃͑ͅ,” he scratches somewhere on his body.  
“S̶̡͙̣̝̤̳͉̲̝̖̅̏͜ơ̶̡̢͍̣̣̪̫̤̳͆̂͗̀̓̐̏͗͂͌̐̕͝ͅ,̴͓̎̍͋̎̈́̽̉̇̄͌͝ ̴̢̛̬̣͕̱̖̘͍͂̀̈́̿̆͂͘͜w̶̨̨̺̗̟̖̖͓̘̣̣͇͈̦͗̑̄̄̇͗̈́̕̕͝͠͝͠h̷̡̡̦̬̘͖̰̗͙̳̜̱̤͗͑̍̌͜ͅä̷͙̥͇̖͈͕̗̮͈́̿̈́̋̊̚͜t̴̜̣̩̖̜̬̺͎̗̖͔̂͝?”

  
“You’ll have to b̷̳̼̰͖͕̭̌͆̔̓̿̓̐̉̉͗͘ͅǘ̷̲̞̳̖͚̹̳̘͍̞̦̼͍̲̎̓̿͗͐̕r̸̛̫̼̭͍̆̏̈́̍̔̉̀̔̎̚̕̕͘͝ṅ̶̞̔͐͐͛̋̕ ̶̨̗̹̱͙̭̺́̏̈́̔͌̅̇͌͜like your l̷̛̲̿̅̓̂̇͋̇̌͠è̷̘̇̍̄̈̇̈́̔̔̋͝ţ̴̖̱̅͌͒̌̓͑̅̿̕͠ͅt̵̡͉͈͍̱̺̤̗̗̝̫͎̺͉̎͜ę̴͓̥̗͙̤̺̟̦͖̬̒̇r̷̛̛̠̩̗̮͋̽͋̈̆͊͜ͅs̸̼̰͈̻̣͚̉̄ ̶̡̠̰̠̮̔͝͝o̸̻̯̟̤̹̮̯͎̬̞̤̽ͅf̵̨̢̬̲̦͖̬̘̱̞̤͚͆ ̸̨̟͇̬̜̺̜̥̭͚̜̪̃̈́̈̈͗̽͋̂͘͠d̸̼̱̔̕e̴̹̖̜̙͉̬̫̒͑̽͋̂̄̍̀̃́̀͆͌s̶̡̲̮̦̼̜̺͓̩̹̊̂̌̒͘͠͠ͅp̷̨̬̝͎̺͚͉̱͚͊̎͌̾̓͊a̸̡̧̻͘ḯ̴̢̢͎̖̪̰͙͗̒̔r̵̢͕̼̪̟̲̼̜̩̊̅̉̀́̋͐ ̵͈͍͊̓͆͂̍̕at the junkyard,” he must gleam with joy as he’s saying this.

“W̵̢͚̖̩̜̮̬͑̿͆̅h̶̖̀͊̈́͑͂͐̕ä̴̯̘̗̣͎̝͒̈́̇͐͆̿͛̌̋̋̈́̕t̷̛̤͙̰͂̉̎̏͛͂̎̋͆͋͘ ̶̨̢̨̡̨͕̰̻̎́̕̕͝ͅk̸̈́̎̀̃̉͛̚͝ͅî̸̙̑͌͊͋́̒̿̐̐̕n̸̟̳̜̞̫̩͚̐͆͆̑̕d̶̡̜̩̹̙̘͖̹̥̣̱̠̅͑̂͋̾ ̸̗͖͖͈̠̄̂̆̃̓̊͊͒̾̊͠ǫ̵̝̘̰͓̬̹̿͊̊̀͠f̵̡͉͈̥̬̞͉̪̓͌͋̂̈̔̐͂̊̈́͂̈̾͋͠ ̷̛͔̼͍̙͍̄̈́̃̈́̽͘f̷̡̠̔̈́̈́̑͒̅̌͘̕͝i̴̢͇̭̫̝͙͊̈́͠ͅṟ̵̨͂̓͆͑̒̅̓͂͒͘̕͘̚͜͠ę̶̯̠͔̓̄͒͆ ̷̢͈̯̙̯̱̖̜̠̣̥̦͈͔͂̈́̇͗̍̕͜͝w̶̧̦̟̜̓̄͑̈́̋͌̊̈́͋͐͝͠ị̴̢̛̜͋̉͊̀̄̑͌̌̇͋̑̕͠͝ļ̸̡̧̹̦̫̻̺̑̍͑̉̃̾̚͠ļ̵̼̣̠̘͓̙̬̱̮̬̤̈́̑̂̊̽̌͋̒̍̐̕͠ͅ ̷̧̝͚͓͉̬̺̥͙̤͍͂̇̈͑͛͋ͅŗ̵͚̪͔̪̜́̓̉̚e̵͙̻̪̩͎̗͌̇̋̓̚a̴̝͔̬͈̥̜̽̌̎͂c̷͍̖̫̮̣̬͔̻͖͍̜͉̙̫̊̿̆̐̀͌͗͒͌̿̐̂͠h̶̡̢̭̼̮̩̘̖̯̱̜͕̑ͅ ̵̳̬̼͗̋͑f̸̨̨̢̧̹͎̜̥͈̝͉̆͒͐̄̈́̑̂̎̐̾̎ơ̴̱̈́̿́̋̓̈̑̾͂͆̄̄̆͠r̶̯̹̳̹͉̋͐́̉̓̀̉̏̽̀͌̕̕͝ ̴̛̪͖̐̓͛͛̌̄̾̋̈́̕͘͠m̷̧̠̜͍͖͉͍̘̂̓͌͜ŷ̵̢̰̣̳̊̇͐̐̆̄̅̏̕͘ ̷̧̡̲̹̗̣̲̘̗̩͚͙͉͙͙͂̅͋̎̏́̊̽̌̚͝͝ŝ̸̡̞̟̼͙̇̓̄̈́͑̌̓̅̈͜ͅk̴̡̧̡̻̖͎̙̙̤͉̟̈́͑̂͊̀͝i̷͙͓̟̹͍̇͒̎̌̃̓́͑͘͜͝ņ̴̼̳̳̘?̶̺̳̪̮̘̼̼̰̞͍͚̀̓͌̋̎̈́̓̅̇̒̀͑̌̇” I try to watch in the direction from where he’s speaking.  
“A creature of flames, once human, now executioner. We are going to use an expensive prototype substance to rinse N̶͔͓̊̈́͒͆̉̉̂Ơ̴̯͉͙͚̠̑̊̒̓̐̇̆̇͠ ̶̡̧̼̺̊̈́̏̆̌̈̃̄̂̆͆͑̓̊O̵̹̜̪̯̙̳̳̰̖̫͔̐̆̓̌͒̏͌̄ͅN̷̨̨̮͍̲̙̣̗̪͛͑̃́͊͠Ě̵̤̅̏̃͑ͅ out of this reality. I’m proud to tell you that Mister Prescott consents to help curing your lifeę̷̛̹̺̠͖͚͉͇͛͒̎̇̏̽̓̐͂ͅȅ̶̜̻̳̮͕̳̻̂̕͝ẻ̶͖̞́̒̾̑̃ by adding you to your ~~angel with broken wings~~ ,” he apparently rubs his hands.

_none of this is real!_

“It seems that it’s time for cremation while being awake. Very slow growth of tiny fires surrounding your body, so to speak. Your most recent seizure proves to be a stroke caused by lack of pain. You can’t lose with this. This treatment should remedy everything. I believe it’ll take two days for it to take effect.”

̴̪̱̟̣͋̃͆̑͐̄̒̌̍̚̚̚͝ţ̸̠͚͎̼̣́̎̓̒̾̉̃͋͗̓̇̀͜͠ḩ̴̢̢̱͙̝͇̳̱̼̬̰̈́͑̉̂̏ǐ̷̛̛͚̼̳̩̘̭̳͓͉̬͒͐̄̈́͋̍̐͆̚̚͝ͅś̷̡̧͎͖͚̭̳̥̱̲̜̮̥̪͓̿̈́̈́̈͑̃̃ ̸̧̨̢̭͓͚͈̖̮̙́́͌̏́̋̃̈́̉̚͘͘͝i̵̘̾̈́̇̐̄̈́́͆̈̋͛͗̀̕s̵̢̳̬̼̰̤̈̈̊ ̷̡͔̳̫͚̱͎̩̥̰̲͋͜i̴͕̰̥̟͎͙͔̯̝͈͔̟̯̞͊̐͗̽̔̀̾̓̚̚͜͝ț̶͍͖̈́̿̅́̃́͋̾̽̑̚

̸̞̘̜͕͍̅̄̂̽w̸̧͉̲͉̗̦̒̊̇̈́̾͑̈́̋̈́͊͠ĕ̵̱͍͙ ̶̡̩̹̙͇̹̗̻͙͕̣̺͊͐w̴̨̧̬͈̹͇͋͌̅̐̒̐̇͗̅̄̓̐͋͘a̶̢͍̪̮͈͌̀̽͋͊̉̐͋̔͂̕͝͝͝n̴̡̠̲̒̉̏̉̂t̴̨͕̺͚̗̰̠̂͜ḛ̶̞̩͚͍̞̗̜̥̈͌d̴̢̡̧̠̬̺͉͙̬͖̭̃͑̾̽̓͆̋̔͋͗̕͝ ̷͍̪̱͎̩̳͕̬̲̲͈̏͗̉̌͜ͅͅí̸̡̧̝̫̟̱t̶̢̛̜͉̼̩̦̙͉͈̙̥̝̗͔͊̆̓̄̿̒͗̓͜͠͝͠͝

̷̧̯̬̪̻̱̞̜́͐̈́̊̽͆͂̒́͐̇̚͜͜a̷̡̒̀̂͐͊̈́͑̕n̶̛̥͍̒͛͌̈͐̍̎̒̏̅͘g̴̥͍̮̝̲̟̲̅̿͊̈́ȩ̶̼̺̭̥̯̭̜͉̺̺̳̽̿͑͑͋̋̿̇̆̒̈́̏̉́͛l̸̡̥͚̩͈̙̼̼͌̃͛͊͌͝͝ ̵̝̘͆̈́̄̚ẇ̸̧̧̻̲̼̯̠͕̯̼̬̞͎̬̌͛́̏̈́i̷̝͇̯̟͙̲̲̙͍͆̀̾͜͝ͅt̸̬͈͋̾͗͐̚ḣ̷̡̧̖͈̹̼̥̘̫̪̭̝̠̖̒̍͆ ̵͓̮̦͍͓̭̩̯̘̏̑̚͜͜b̵̨̨̛̭͈̘̠̥̈́͑̑̒͐̑̅͘r̵̹̒͑̔̔̽̇͋̈̈̈́͂̎̈́͘̚ͅo̴̞̞̳̘̖̍ͅķ̵͖̬̺̱̬̠̣̝̯̭͚̫̗͑̅͠ĕ̷̹͓͓͎̾̽̉̄̅̔̌̓͆͆̕n̸̨͍̹̰͚͉͍̦͖̼̮̺̱͑͂̃̋̑̔̌̔̽͂͜͠ ̴̨̡̜̼̗͖̪̯̟̮̩̊͌͂̃͛̄͋̇̐̊́͊̃͠ͅw̸̹̳̫̓̈̽̌͑̆̓̌̈́͘i̵̡̢̩̮̙͎̭͔̪͉͆̇̿͆̍̏̈́́͝n̴̬͈͊̋͑͗̽̌͒́͐̇ğ̴͓͕͛̄͛͌̋̌̊s̷̛̛̰̮̆͌͐̎́̅̐̊̋̔͗ͅ ̷̰̲̭̫͕̪͙͆͊͆̂̕ẃ̶̡̡̩̠͕̠̝͊̊̂̇ơ̷̤͎̮̪̳͍̯͕̻̙͙̂̒̋̾͛̆ͅn̸̢̛̫͉̺̤̥̫̝̜͇͍͋̉͆̓͜ͅ’̴̳̯̌̾̑͘͘t̸̗̠̥̮̻͔̐̃̕ ̵̡̖̰͚̺̥̫̰̻͓̌̐̄̽̋͒̑̌̾̾̌͛̿́̾͜f̴̖̓̐̆̍̇̐̓̃̕ū̵̢̨̡͇͔͈͓̣̻̰̯͎̯̙̅č̸̡̞̞̮̺̲͖͕̞̺̤̞̎k̸̡̨̨̛̼͓̪̗̜͓͍̫̉͒̋̒͊̎̆̈́̕͜͝ ̸̛̛̬̬̫̪̹͎̿̆̈́̐ͅư̷̛̛̲̭̼͙̰̳̲̹̖̪͔̜̥͓̽̓͂̂̓͒͑̇͛̈͜͝s̸̨̤̞̀̐̓̽̃̓̌̓̆

̷̢̰̼̞̝͉̫͈̎̇̋̃͘t̸̡͈̟̠͛͊̓͛̒̍̓̋̈̈́͜h̵̢̳̟͈͖̣͔̱͚̬̦͍̥̥͋̑̍̈́͂͑̅̕a̴̡̡̰̬̻̳̟̻͕̙͆͋̑̽̅̈́̏̀̓͝n̸̨̙̤̗̆̓̎k̵͎͈̖̪̬͉̥͂͌͆̾̎͠ ̸̫̖̭̬̫̪̠̯̲̲̖͉̎̾̈́̿̍̕̕ỳ̴̜̭͇͚͊̔́͐̌̅͆́͊̇͘͘͠o̸̡͖̬̪̜͈͍͉̭͔̔̆̐̓̓̃͝͝͝û̸̧̧̧̫̼͎͙̝̯̻̫͐͂͐̈́̉͗̽̂̚̚͜͠

̴̢̻̭͒̒̆̍̓̀̓̏̓͑̏̌̋͘̚Ḭ̸̡͍̤͎̳̖̭̬̜̄͋̏́̓̈̊͂̕͘ ̷̢̺͖͛͆̄̊s̷̯̝͎̣͍͈͇̹̖̬̰̤͙͎̙͗̆̓͝t̸̡̨͈͚͚̥̪̙̜͒͗͗̔̓̾̆̾͋͘̚͠͝o̷̖͈̝̼͕̣̳͆̃̎͐͐̾̃̆̅̿͒̔p̴̡̨̩̥̜̼̞̜̳͚̥̆ͅ ̴̧̤̝̗̥̹̖̠͚̹͚̘͍̮̾͒̈̄̄̒̏͋͋̈̍͆͝͝q̷̙̱͚͎̪̻̟͕͇̭͈̓̈́́̀̓͊́͜ủ̸̧̨̢͓̰̼̺̤̙̘̙̦̠͒̒̓̀̉͋͝ͅę̶̛̻̘͕̞̳͔̻̲̦̘̻͈͔͖̅̃͊͒̈́͑͊̈͘͘͝s̸̡͈̭̪̙̙̪͙̲̦̞͍͎̭̈́̇́́̈́͑̄͌̓͑̃͜͝͝͝t̶͍̭͇̘͍̳̥̀̉̿̀ĭ̶̛̭̹̤͕̮̗̪͂̒̿̐̏́̔̈́̎͜͠ơ̴̡̡͙̩͓̜̬̺͓̬̳̓͊͑͆̈́̄͋͠͝n̸̨̨͍͓̘͉̰̫͇̘͚̺͔̠̐̓ȉ̸̗̭̣̤̥͋͋͛͐̍͌́͝n̸̪̼̠͉͎̮͇̣̙̩̦̻͛̈́͑̆̈͜g̸̢̡̢̻̭̥̼̟̗̺̈̃̊̉͂͌̓͠͝ͅ ̸̧̢̠͓̳̮̖͖͇͈̲̼̰̣͒͑͂̏͑͆͗͐͑̚͘ͅt̶̡̢̛̪̙͎̟͍͇̍̉̈̐̇̈́̃͊̐͋͛͠h̶̢̠͔̙̯̜̪̼̃̎̀̚͜͠͝ę̵͖̟̰̺͉̟̗́̈̃͐͐̔ ̴̛̬͕͚͖̣̮̟̮͂̒̃͂́̾͂̏̍̄̿̋͝ṟ̷͍͚͕̺͍͎͈ȩ̸̰̻̾̌̈́̌́̐̅̓̏̇̐͘͘͘a̷̩̹̱̺̼̪͌̅̇͑́̍̏̓͛̓̄̇͐͘̚ͅļ̵̧̛̲̼͓̩̟̟̩͇͓̾̇̂̅͑̂̒̕į̶̤̞̯̎̽͆̋͊͗̌̋͋͗̅̌͘͠t̵̛̮͕̦͔̲̝̍̉̌͐̔̓̐͒̂̍̚͝y̵̡̪͍̗͎̠̬̜̠͉̩̦̅̔̊̽̒́̔̀ͅͅ ̸̲̣͈̺͎͋̊͛̌̔̀̉̅̀͒I̶̧̱͓̱̹͚̙̔̓͠’̷̭̖͈̺͕͉̏͒́͒̑͂̇̎̈́͗̔̊m̸̯͍̪̻̉͗̑͗̆̐̽͊͑͛̕͝ ̸̛͙̪͖̯̭̅́̈̿̍̌̅͗̎͘͘͜͝p̵͓̳̰̘̖͚͆̇̉̇̾̄̌͌̒̾͝͠ě̷̮̪̫͇͈̅̔͊̾̊̌̈̿͑̒̚̚͝ř̸͔̫̓̋̊͆̈̾̋̄ḉ̵̼̹͓̜̻̠e̸̜̓̏̔̾̓̊̌͝ì̷̧̳͎̦̺̝̼̬̫͓̺̭̪̋̂͊̃̀͋̑͝v̶̧̨̡̹̯̥̠͒͊̂̓̆̓̓͜ì̸̡̛͍̹͉̞̗͔̬̩͖̇̐̾͑̓͆̂̈́̓͘͝ņ̴̛̛̩̝̮̤̗͔̋͊͒̐̏̈̈́͆̕͘͠͠͠g̷̢͉̽̈́̾̏͋͂̃͛̌̽͘.̸̛̛͈̾̒̀͆͋̎̍̿͗̐͝ ̵̙̥͕͋̆͗̎̾̎̓̓͆̕͝

I merely ask, “C̵̛̳̖̤̹̱̬̜̤̙͙͐̆́̉͋̃͝a̶̧̛̲̻̙͚̹̘̞͖͔͈̅̎̈́̋n̶͙͓͒̈́͆́̚͝ ̴̨̝̘͖͖̗̟͇͍̖̟̭̥̍̂͋̊͌͑̚I̵̪̖͔̥̞͉͙̩̺̗̞̜̹͗̎̓͑̈̍̄̂͆́́̊̕ ̸̛͍̮̬͕͋̉̍̈́̿̈̔̄̚͠͝t̶̢̙̞̙̗͛̓ä̷̛̯͍̼̠͚́̕͝͠l̸̖̞̬̈͗̽̍̅́͝͠k̷̲͈̱͖̪̃ ̶͕̱̘̳͚̲̌̆̓̒̓̐̂͆̂̈́̑ṫ̵̬͉̜̲̝̌̊̍̃̀͐͜ö̸̡̯̺͔̥̥͚͇̥̻͈͈̠́͜͝ ̴̘͙̼͕̻̪̳͙̊̈̽͋̂̒͐͛͑̽͒͗͝t̶̛̬̱̫̭̥̠̤̆̌̓̎̈́̚͝͝h̸̹͙̙̖͙̬̭͕͈͊̉̿͐̓̀͊͊̌͂͝͠ḙ̶̰͓̤̓̐̅̑̍̉̎͐̀̇͘̚̚͜ ̵̧̭̼̫͍̮̼̝̼̬̒̎̍͑̿̈́̓̈́̆͛̃̚͝ rapist f̷̢̙͚̝̙̳͙͓͉̹̳͛̑͗̏̈́͋͊̕͘͝͝i̶͙̫̜̾̑̌͋̽̏͝ŗ̵̡̝̞̼͙̜̗̮̞͍̝̺̤͕̃̈́̎̌̓͋̇̒͝ş̷̖̰̠̹͇̹̱͉͆͒̓̒͋̅̾̾ͅt̴̨͓͙̤̆͗̒̆̿̍̎͊̾͒?̵̼̇̄̅̿͘”  
“Certainly, and maybe, by the end of this week, you’ll be able to _s̷̢̱̣̞͈͍͎͓͔̿̉̓̓͗̔̋̑̿̾̎̈͘̚̚ē̸̖̖̠̘̹̫͂̒͝ȩ̸̧̨͕̣̣̭̞̓̏̌̾̐̋̈́̔̐͝ ̸͉̋̽͗̄̊̆̒̑̓̅_ him.”

He carefully places the clipboard on my right hand, which lays on my dead thigh. So wrong to feel the synthetic material. All other senses work weaker since my eyes don’t even catch a single beam of light. f̵̘̫̣͔̤̪̠̱̗̯̈́̌̆͐̓̈́͛͗̐͜ͅĭ̸̬̬͈̝̦̯͙͔̮͒͗̓̓̌̚͘͝ͅͅé̷̝͚͔͕͈̺̮̭̳͖̗͉͍̜̤͗̏̉̾̌̓̒̚n̴̡̨̥̱̯̫̼̦̠̞̦͎̬̱̹̈d̵̛̮̺͓͎͉̰͚̂̋̃̉͜ͅ ̶̡̜̙̫̦̫͍̻͖̬̣̦̤͗̊͋͜ͅ hands me a blood-stained pen by simply dropping it onto my palm. I won’t listen to the voice in my head nor the Ņ̴̧̭͓̗̮̠͙̜͓̲̉̏̀̓̌̓͐̑̓̅̒̽͠O̷̖̜̩̖͓̻̞͖̯̊̈̈́͆̓ ̴̞͚̥̬̝̹̦͎̗͕̜̠̂͝ͅƠ̵̡̰̲̻͋̈́͑͒͂͗N̶̻̩̳̬̥̪̖̲̘̥͓̣̮̾͐̈͋Ȩ̸̢̻͙̤̫̯̥̹͈̪͙̦̖̂͊̓͘̚̚͜͠ ̷̧̡̨̛͔͉̯̖͓̘̃̅̅̂͘͝I’ve just talked to and whatever else limbos might exist. I write somewhere on the blood-soaked sheet. I’m sure, I missed…

_fight against this, max! you must resist!_

“Thank you, Ņ̴̧̭͓̗̮̠͙̜͓̲̉̏̀̓̌̓͐̑̓̅̒̽͠O̷̖̜̩̖͓̻̞͖̯̊̈̈́͆̓ ̴̞͚̥̬̝̹̦͎̗͕̜̠̂͝ͅƠ̵̡̰̲̻͋̈́͑͒͂͗N̶̻̩̳̬̥̪̖̲̘̥͓̣̮̾͐̈͋Ȩ̸̢̻͙̤̫̯̥̹͈̪͙̦̖̂͊̓͘̚̚͜͠ ̷̧̡̨̛͔͉̯̖͓̘̃̅̅̂͘͝.” an order?  
“No, dear f̵̘̫̣͔̤̪̠̱̗̯̈́̌̆͐̓̈́͛͗̐͜ͅĭ̸̬̬͈̝̦̯͙͔̮͒͗̓̓̌̚͘͝ͅͅé̷̝͚͔͕͈̺̮̭̳͖̗͉͍̜̤͗̏̉̾̌̓̒̚n̴̡̨̥̱̯̫̼̦̠̞̦͎̬̱̹̈d̵̛̮̺͓͎͉̰͚̂̋̃̉͜ͅ ̶̡̜̙̫̦̫͍̻͖̬̣̦̤͗̊͋͜ͅ, please don’t hurt me the way Ḭ̷̢̢̳̝͔̹̙̱̯̝̳̹̱̿ ̸̡̱̳̮̖̈́͋́̾̊͗̀̌̒̕͠͠H̷̪͉͈̣̩̳͙̲̱̹̗̄̆̆̌̒̾͛̄̊̉͆͐͘͜͝͝U̸͎͓̖̮͈̤͙̱̝̯̘̩̙͖̓̒̍͒̕͝Ṛ̸̡͙̼̜͎͚̘̹̱̜̹͗ͅT̶̢͈͚͇̣̦̻͖̠̹̳͎͇̿̿̌͐̈́̔̅̕̕͝ͅ ̷̢͍̝̠̻̩̟͕̩̂̓̄͊̑̃͒̈́̊̈͒̽̕͠ ~~M̶̛͚̮͕̿̍̐Y̴̧̡͖̼͚̰̫̘̰̯̬͇͊̈͜ͅ ̵̨̡̡̛̘͙͍͈̹̜̥̞̌̾̈̂̔̈́̉̊̀̕͠͝͝͝ͅͅA̵̙͑̚N̶̼̣̙͎̱͈̫̠̩̦̣͍̙͕̼͂͠G̸̮̊͒̍̉̌͝Ë̴̡̦̘͔̘̰́̓̑̾̽̈́̋̂L̵̠͈͍̯̗͉̎̈͋̾̊̓̍̔̿̽̔̐̈́̃ͅ ̸͚̞̼̀͌̚W̷̮͖̻̣̮̙͎̻̥͌̃͋͂̓̌͆̇̆̅̓̕̕͝I̷͕͉̩̼̣̤̩̼͈̥̰̳͍̥̅͗̌̄̏̒͋̚͝Ţ̵̳̞̟̺͈̘̤̰̦̲̪̣́͌̅͊̿̈̈́̉̿͠͝Ḥ̶̨̞̱̫̯͖͕͇̼̳͐͑̈́̂͠͝͝ ̴̢͈̼̗̹̺̹̳̺̪͕̭̐̆͋͒̚͝B̶̯̩̬͈̩͈̱͉̭̺̣̼̘͌̀̒̐̓͒͜͜R̵͉̪̫̝̝̊̋̒̌̐̎̏̿̐̕͜͝Ȍ̴̤͇̮̠̱̠̲͎̝̞̀̑̈́͜Ķ̵̢͓̱͕͔͇̳̦̪̞̻͛̍͊E̴̢̤͍͎̱̪͉͎̜̠̥̮͆̿͗́̍̎͌̌͘͜ͅN̵͚̤͚̩̣̂̈́͂̋̐̽̾̅͐̈̈́̋̕͜ͅ ̶̡͉̬͆̐͛͑W̴̢̛̫̦̝͕̙̩̥̘̣͔̞͑̾̋́͊͜I̵͎̖͙̫͑͗͌̿̄Ǹ̸̤̝̙̳̭͖̬̰̃͝Ĝ̸̛̲̈̒̔̑͗̕̕͠͝S̷̡̢̨̺͍̭͈̞̱̭̖͕̙̥̈́͊͒̈́͗͂̊̌̊̑͌͘͠ͅ~~!̴̩̒̃̎̚” I politely answer in return, but…

 _this isn’t true, none of this_.

“I’ll talk to the rapist. Poor and sad Innocence would be pleased to visit you, too. Do you agree?”  
Oh my ~~ĝ̴̢̡̨̡̢̼̙̰͔̟͚̭̖̱̞̒o̸̢̢̡͕̙̻͇̟̰̼̳̼̅̾́ḑ̴̩͍̯̰̠̜̑̈́͆͑͗̽̆̈́͝͝ͅ~~ , my action did matter, Ȋ̴̧̡̻̯̥͎̹͉͕͎͆̃̓͆̿̅̃̒̚͝͠͝͝n̸̢͔͙̙̟͉̞͉̉̍̃̀̿̋n̶͖͕̟̰̥̅̏͑̔̄̅͑̈̓̋̒̽̕͘͠ơ̵̧̺̮̲̤͚̹͕̲̻̻͍̘̌̋͌̒̅͛̒̿́̕͘͜c̴̢̛̘͎͎̺̀̃̎̿͋͆̅̂̕͘͠͠͝ḙ̶̫̝͎̱͙͕̲̏͑̍̀̐̌͒̄̌̔̔̂̌̚͝ṋ̶͍̗̮͍̳͓̹̀̈͝c̶̯͇̟͓̩̭͒̾̄͛̏̀̀̅̆̍͂͠ẻ̴̻̪̙̣̝̏͌͐͋̓̋̾͠ wants to see me?  
“O̵͉͙̤̠̹̼̬͔̓͌͗f̴̛̩͔͇͓̃͊͂̑̊̔̍̉̂ ̵̢̞͇̩̉̑c̸͓̝̘̟̩̖̟̋̐o̶̲͗̈́̄̐̔́͆̏̍͌͘̕ų̸̛͈̗̬͉͉̹̒̀ͅr̸͙̘̜͖͚̘̪͍̺̗̹͖̱̄͜s̴̺̍̇͌͊̊͂̓̓̄ę̴̢̺̫͕̰̩̳͎̜͇̅͜,̷̮͖̜̮̬̭̱̱̬̮̑͝ ̶̭͆̐̑̋̍̽͌͝͠I̴̥̯͎̖̘̺̫͓͓͕̼̠͙̝͒͊̆͊̀…̴̥͈͚̬͍̦̖̳͖͈̞́̈́͛́͒̃͘͜͝͝ ̵͎̪̰̫͈͍͔̝̹̾̆͋̌̕͠I̶͈̳̞̣̦͇̽͜ͅ’̵̡̛͈̦̞̦̞͙͇͒̊̿̽̍̄̈̈́́̍̽͘͜͝ͅd̸̨̧̧̢̮̺̗̺̪͓̺͔̣͇̈́͐̊̓̅̍̈́̈́̐̕ ̶̢͎̠͓͖͚̲͇͙̾̋̏̎͑̈̈́b̸̨̡͙͉͉̜̗̯̬̦̰̣̙͙̼͆͐̒̂̈́̎́̄͠ȩ̸̛͕͇̰͚̉͗͗̍͂͠͝ ̵̨̢̢̜̯̘̱̬͍̮͔̻͇̱̋̓̂̔͛̈́͐̍̆̕ḍ̴̯̞̰̹͔͑̃͗̓̽̚͝e̶͎͙̮̳̯̥̽͊͌͊͑̏̈̀̈́͋̃͘̕͝l̷̹͎̳̈́̉͂̈́̒̓͆̅͝͝i̸̢̧̟̺̙͎̹̞͖̰͓̰̅͌̋̆͌̽̉̅̿͊g̶̤̓̓͌͋̋̀̋̓̾̓͛͐͘h̷͈̮̠̻͎͉͈͔͆̏̈́͒̚ͅt̵͚͎̘̞̬̱͕̅͋ȩ̷̹̥̬̳̲͇͚̜͉͕̞̹̽̈́̃͆͐̎͑͐d̸̩̩,̶̢̰̘̻̜͇̦̭͐̐̒̚” I grin and turn my head towards the direction the f̵̢̨̡̘̼̓̂̉̐̓͆̑́̅̚̚͘͠͠i̸̛̜̖̰̰̰͆̊́͂͜͠ë̸̛̼̺̝̙͈̬̟̩̖̪̞͉̯͕́̈̓̌̇̓̊̌n̸̢̛̯͖͖͉̮͔̲̲͓̬̣͙̙͆̉́̔̊͆̀̓̇͑̑͊̒ḑ̴̼̟̝̫̥͍͆̍̚͝ ̷̛̰̩͇͓̹̣̝̺̪͉̦̣͍͔̇̓̈͐̍̉̌̆͝ has been talking to me all along.

“Your abusive visitor will arrive soon, any ideas for alleviation?” he asks before leaving. “No idea,” I shake my h̴̙̖̲̣̻̱̔́̃̽̅̐͒͂̌̔͂ę̶̧̞̫̭̯̙̰̫̤̇͌̂͂̂̃ą̸̨̟̤͇̳̯̩̝̏͋͆͂͑̂̈d̷̡̢͕̳̻̩̆͛̈̾̍̍̂͒̈̚ ̸͈̘͛̇̈́̊́͐̚͜͠ǒ̶̦͖͎̼̟̳̤̲̪͙̻̮̦͚͂͛̓͆̏̆f̵̡̢̧̜̰̘͇̩̞̯͋̍͜f̸̗̻̜͎̝̪͉̔̅̋̓͊͛̚͝. The f̵̨͕̫͍̱̪͎͈̩̩͚̬̥̫͆̅̂̏͒̾͒͘î̸̩̥̱͈̺͆̌͗̅͛͊͌̓̈́̈́̊͝ͅe̶̡̛̳͗͋̓̄̚͠n̶̙͔̞̹͗̋̾̍d̵͈͚̰̋̓̄ ̶̞̻̤͓̪̪̱͔͙̾̇̿̂͊͆͒̓̚ finally leaves the room, _bloody reality_. Look at the ---- side, Ņ̴̧̭͓̗̮̠͙̜͓̲̉̏̀̓̌̓͐̑̓̅̒̽͠O̷̖̜̩̖͓̻̞͖̯̊̈̈́͆̓ ̴̞͚̥̬̝̹̦͎̗͕̜̠̂͝ͅƠ̵̡̰̲̻͋̈́͑͒͂͗N̶̻̩̳̬̥̪̖̲̘̥͓̣̮̾͐̈͋Ȩ̸̢̻͙̤̫̯̥̹͈̪͙̦̖̂͊̓͘̚̚͜͠ ̷̧̡̨̛͔͉̯̖͓̘̃̅̅̂͘͝, you are g̵̡̣̗̬̤͐̅͗̒ö̶͚́̄î̵̡̧̳͈̳̙̣̥̥̭͑ͅn̷̢̛̦̫͇̻͔̞̘̗̻͛͗̋̑͛̍̅̍͒̽̔͂͒g̶̤͖̹͈̘̖̞̥̱̣͙̊͌̽̑ ̸̠̝̘̬̘̬̥̥̣̩͉͚̫͛̂̅̒̓͛̂͌̅͛͝t̷̡̛̳͆͂̀̈́͘̚͝ͅo̴̥͛͝ ̷̡̡̩̱͓̖̝͙̻̿̀́̓̾͑̇̃̒͘b̷̢̪̖͈̰͉̓̃͒ẽ̶͙̞̩̗̜̣̩̲̝͇̮̳̐̋̓͆͋̈̽̈́͛̃̔̐͝ not strapped and gagged to this sickbed, like ~~our angel with broken wings~~ did with ~~my slave~~.

The glass falls and I’m unable to catch it. I’m waiting for it to break.  
“Gotcha, little friend,” the r̵̨̞̬̩̪͕͗̇̅̽̀̒̎̃͛̀͘͠͝͠a̴̢̲̬̱͉̰͋̄̑͜͠͝p̵̙͌̋̃ȋ̶͎̬̖̔̐̈́͑̈́ş̸̧̛̲͔̫̖̭͍̜̪̤̰̆̊̆͋t̶̻̼̖͍̽̅̈́̄̓̀̀͑ ̴̡̡̨̥̰̗͍̜̦̐̿͑͛̾̈́̍͂̓́̎̾̚ͅͅͅͅͅ silently snuck in.

_that’s not true! stop this madness!_

  
“Kill more, Neutered Animal,” I smile and raise my arms and wait for him to hug me.  
“Hey,” I̷̧̙̙̤͗̌̏̾̄̅̈́̉͗n̴̢̖̝̄̆͋͆͗̿͒͝n̴̢̺̟̭͎̊͑̉͒̎̿̆̏͐͐͜͝ͅȯ̷̡̗͓͚̪̞̖̘͎̎́͒̄̃̈́͛̑̕͘ͅç̵̖̼̙͕̥̩͇̽͊̑̑̇̇̃̚͝ę̴̯̤͕́͒͐́̐̔̚͝ǹ̶̨͚̬͍͛͘͠c̴͖̖̦̘̍̊̉̓ę̷̢̢͈̯̜͊̄̒̋ ̸͓̈̈͋ has entered after his bigger brother.

“Is this room 237?” I hear Eric’s voice. His English is kind of worse than his other f̴̥̱̖̘̆͂̽͆͗͑͘a̸̧̨̳͖̬͎̥̙̖̝̥̳͖͕̟̍̅̑̇̾̓̎̇͛͘̚͝͠ľ̶̪͚̦͉̦̅̌̈́̈̔̉͝͠͠ş̸̻̞͖̯͓͖̤͕͙͊͗̎̔̋̈́͂̀̇̑̈́͗̍̎͘͜é̷͔͉̺̟̊̌͗͆̓̽̐̋͝ ̸̧̢̮̘̻̱͋̐̊̓̽̊͌̾̽̈͌̏̓̉ being. “Oh, you must be Ń̸̙̘̙͙̜͚̒O̶̩̠͓̩̦̘͑ ̴͕̐̅́͘͝O̶̢̹̤̘̜̭̪̍̔̉̿̈́Ņ̸̨̧̪̠̫̯͖͕̼̤̏̓͌̿̈́̏͛͐͋̈́͐͘͘͝Ȩ̴͇̦̠͙̣̻̯̎̈́̇̄̈́͂̕͠’̷̢̡̛̹͇̩̞̣̫̲͓̃͗͑̈́̀̽͗̋̇̈́͑̃̚͜͝S̷̡̼͚̬̣͓̙̟̃̋̍̑̅̈́̇̿͘ͅ visitor. Í̷͎͈͉̖̪̫̟͗̀͜ṇ̶̫͒͑͒̇ň̸̯͈̩̼̠̍õ̴̮̳͇͕̖͖̳̾̑̂̾͐č̴͖̙͉͗͋͂̃̾͑̌̈́͂͒͊͝ͅe̴̢̧̨͖̮̬͔̱̣̮͍̓ͅn̵̺̫͇̹͆̀̎̈́̍̕͠c̷̗̙͑̿̒̈́͐̏̔̏͝͝è̶̳̲͚͔͍̹̬̤̠̜͌̉̾̀̐͌̆̌̐̕͝͝ ̸̡̩͖͖̻̼̬̭͖̳͓̽̔͆ͅͅ and I will come back later. I think, you both need some time alone,” the r̵̨̞̬̩̪͕͗̇̅̽̀̒̎̃͛̀͘͠͝͠a̴̢̲̬̱͉̰͋̄̑͜͠͝p̵̙͌̋̃ȋ̶͎̬̖̔̐̈́͑̈́ş̸̧̛̲͔̫̖̭͍̜̪̤̰̆̊̆͋t̶̻̼̖͍̽̅̈́̄̓̀̀͑ ̴̡̡̨̥̰̗͍̜̦̐̿͑͛̾̈́̍͂̓́̎̾̚ͅͅͅͅͅ turns around and leaves. Two pairs of feet walk out and a third pair strides up to my bed. I raise my arms again, “N̸̛̤̮̖̮̞̝͎̲͉̮̣̂͛͋̔̆̋̿̄͘͝ͅͅo̴͙͖̼̜̘͒̈́̾̎ ̵̻͈̙͇̩̞̬͖̪̠̉ẖ̴̛̝͉͗̋͑̃̇͌̒͛͗͌̀͌̇ȗ̸̢̢͉̤̯̭̮͇̥̦̪̏̈́̎̓̆͐̔̄̒̀̕̕͘͜g̶̨̲̖͕͆͋̐͘ ̶͚̻̘̪͕̓͌̒́̿̿͊t̶̡͍̜̩̗̊͛̈́̓̎͌̾̍̐̄̃̃o̵͍̽̈́̓̈́̌́̋̌̌̾͒̾̅̚ ̵̛̟͉̹̗̮͈͇͍̬̀̈́̔̂́̚̕m̴̰̦̰̻͖̩̙̠̽̃̌̈́y̶̧̢̧̢͕̮͕̟̯͕̠͛͂̋͑̌͜͜ ̵̧̫̙͚̂̀̈́c̵̡͈͎͖̝̫̞̺̣͎̭̦̞͐̓͜o̶̦̮̹̬̱̭̾̒̆̔̎͛͝l̶̤̉͆͆̓͋̿͊̕ḍ̵̢̻͉͕̳̟̱̤͇̖͚̓̾̔̂͗̇̒̆̇ ̷̧̢̛̲̟̲̳̞̦͎͓̝̐́̓͒ç̸̞̱̙̗̰͇̩̣͍̤̰̳̤̩h̸͍͎̰͕͍̳̒͒͂́̎͠͠͝͠ȩ̶̛̻̙̺̲̙͙̭͎̩̳͉̜͎̇̔̔̈́̏͂ͅs̷̨̧̭̞̟̭̦͕̭̰̦͉͈̪̐̆͑t̸͙͚̯̓͛͋̍̂́͒́̅͂?” I ask him. His eyes watering blood of grief!

~~ą̷̡̖̟͔͚̣̣̮̭̫̥̂͐̽́̈́͒͊͒͘͠n̶͔̗̗̥̝̏̑̉͐̅̋̋̉̎̈́͛̾̃g̵̙̺͑͌̐͌̈͒̃͗ȅ̷͍̫̳̖̪͑̑͒̈̀͌̈́͂͆l̶͍̳͌̀̈́́͘ ̴̯͍̦̹͍̘̫̼͜͠ͅw̷̢̢̮͉͚̲͔͚̻̺̼̫̝̭̑̇̅̂̌ͅį̵͂̉̈́̆̇̃̆̈́̋̑t̷̫̬͎̟̣̱͂̄̊͑͂͗̏ḩ̷̯̩̟͚̳̪̺̪͍̩̻̠̠̘̎̾ ̸̢̣͖͇̫̟̈́͆̉̽̄̚b̶̜̜̗̅r̸̨̨̧̢̛̯̫̜̘̯̮̞̻̣̗͚̓̓̓́̇͘̕͠o̷̧̠̱͉̅͋͛̾̚͘͝͝k̸̗̹͕̞̊̾̈́̈́̐̍̔̒͘͠ẻ̶͚̖͖̼̎̆̎͐̇̈́͊̿́̽̊ͅṇ̷̨̢̨̲̹̫̬̼̱̫̃̌̋̊͌̓̾̂̍̿͊͘͝ ̸̛͇̞͉͓̬͉͇͇̱͂̈́̒͆̆͜͝͠w̵̲͚̉̈́̎̅͘͝ǐ̷̢̜̺̖̼̗̜̫̩͕̱̫̣̖̟͐̍͝n̴̯͚̳̜̑̃̎̇̈́͒̿͌̌͘͝ģ̶̡̳̙̫̽s̴͈̈̍̈̾͛̈́̇͒͘ ̵̡̭̱͈̻̣̠̝̾̐͆w̷͉̱̘̳̱͉̞̗͉͑̂̆̋̌̊̽̐̔͐̕͜h̸͕̹̮̰̯̞̰̤̬̥͍̣̮̓̑̈́̂͑e̶̯̮͔̟̜̗̗̻̣̘̊́̈́͗̌́̾̂̄͊ṛ̵͎͖̞̰̮͔̮͉̿͌̍̓͜e̴̢̛̮̥̱̜̘͐̈̄̉̈͆ ̴̧̗͓̝̞̭͌̓̏̐̿̅ͅà̴̛͉͈̬̏̎̾̾̐̏̊̃̏r̸̹͚̬̝̫̩͎̗͖̗̂͜͜e̵̡̨̞̯̰̯͓̗͙̐̓͐̾̔̈́͘͘͝͝ ̸̹͍̬͖͕̗̜̦̗̥͖̋̄̾̒̈́̓̊̒ỹ̶̲͕̯̻͂̽̄̐̽̒̅̿̂͋͌͝͝o̶̧̡̧͇͔̰͙̟̯͇͗̽̃̏̊̈͛̅̈́̆̎͑̓͠ư̶̭̂͊̈͂̌͝͠?̴̨̱̪͓̭̫̬̺͎͍̠̥̦̯̓̽̍͌̓͌̕̕̚͝~~

~~̸̰̈́̆͆͝w̸͈̣͔̟͎̯̪̞̗͔̠̬̖̱͋̂̓̌̂̎̾̊̏̕ȩ̸̙̰̬̹͚̫̦̻̪̤̲̈́̈ ̵̡͔̙̘͈͙͖̭͎̝̘̠̹̇̑͆̄̈̚͜͝ä̶̛͚̞̯̟̟̣͖̏͐͆̇͝ṙ̵̦̤̟ẹ̶͚̺̱̲̘̪̻̠͓͉̓̆̈́͌̂̂̉ ̶͍͗̓̇͝s̷̖̲̤͖̑̃̋̄́̓̉̋̔̏̈́͘͝ͅö̵̢͔̙̩̳͇͔͎͕͓͚̜́̐̌͋̀̋̓̌̐̄ ̴̡͍͉͇͖͚̘͕̺̊̈́͆̔̋̏͝͠d̵̡͕̥̼̘̊͗a̵̬̻̩̭̫͓̼̮͍͖̼̖̥͙̘͑̾͛͐̄̔̔̓̾̒͒̈́̊͝͠m̶̫̙͈̞̳̓̿͋͒̐̓n̷̛̲̪͔̟̪̼̟̰͓̺̿̃̚e̴̺̘̪̳̰͚̿͂͑̎͗̍̀͘͘͝d̵̞̘̭̈́̓ ̶̧̼͍̹̣̦͍̞̓͜͝ḁ̴̧̨̛̪̻̙̩̳͙̞͕͔̼͉͐̔̉̅́͠ͅn̵̩̐̓̉̾̓̿͋̉̄̇͌͐ḑ̴̢͖͍̱̔̍̋̉̍͛͑͊̂̚ ̷̜̘̤̻̇͐̄͊͗̔̈́̊̈́̚͝ā̵̡̛̞̳̪̦̻͍̫̯̣̮͌͐͗̌͒̒̍̀́̃͒l̸̫͇͂̍̍̓̈̈́̇̈́͋́̿ǫ̴͇̩̫̱̲̜͉̬̹̖ͅn̷̩̜̼͔̗̖̦̉e̸̡͚̱̣̤̹͋͑́͛̕~~

~~̸̡̟̹̩̟̪͙̤̇͑̏̅͜͜I̸̢̢̧̛̛̟͍̠̹̦͕͇̱̖̗̣̒̎̈́̓̌͂̈́̍̿͘̕̕͜ ̶͇̱̬̳̙̖̯̥̜̟̑̒͊̋̊̊̂̈́̅͒͘̚W̴̨̙̺̥̣̥̖̺͎̖̲͑͘͜Ì̵̛̹̹̫̟̹̼̘̎͗̇̅͛̏̌̽̊̍L̴̟̣̣̮̽̍̽̐̈́̑͘͠Ļ̵̢̛̘͙̦͔̙̠̮̙̲̥̯̎͘͜͜͠ ̴̢̻̯͈̜̳̳͚̤̰̯͙̾̈́̔̕C̷̺̻̫̦͈̩̳̺̫̗̲̓̍̃͛̆̃̌̅̽Ơ̴̢̡̳̯̼̩̫͚͍̰͇̘̊̐̅͗̑͐̽͠Ḿ̶̨̧̛̯͍̻̬̲̫̗̹̝̰̓̐͗̅̕Ë̵̩̳̬́̎̾̄͑͜ ̷̨̛͇̰̋̿̐͐̉T̷̢̟̞̗̲͝Ǭ̸̧͍͓͕̲̦̙ ̸̢̤͚̦͇̺̭̲̬͍̙̦͓͖̊̅̉̔Y̶̛̰̻̫̗̭̭̫͇̤͚͚̆͗͆̃̌̑͆̒͑̏͘ͅO̸̡̡̡̩̻̩͇̘̜̬̣͓̟̣̒U̶̠̺̇̋̄͑̒̃̆͗̕͝~~

“Jeez, shall I leave you suffering?” he catches my aching head.  
“They made a cut on…” he spotted the rivers of blood under my trachea. C̸̞̺͓͔̼͈̹̍̃̽̓̈͘U̵͚̱̠̜̽͋́̿̾̉̐͌̀̌̄̊̃ͅT̷̨̗̝̃̍͂̊̒̇̑̿̓͂ͅ ̵̢͎͊͋͒̄̽̂̚̕͝͠Ǐ̵̧̼̳̏̂̿́̾̋͒͊͗̍̚T̸̡̨̢̛͔̭̣͕̺̞̱͍̜̰̅̔̀̍̌́!̶̨̪͈͉̖̣͎̍̽̈̓̃̑̒̑̿  
“Had a stroke recently,” I manage to say while trying to handle the pain.  
The voice in my head appears to be some kind of speaking memory. At first, I supposed that it was Ń̸̙̘̙͙̜͚̒O̶̩̠͓̩̦̘͑ ̴͕̐̅́͘͝O̶̢̹̤̘̜̭̪̍̔̉̿̈́Ņ̸̨̧̪̠̫̯͖͕̼̤̏̓͌̿̈́̏͛͐͋̈́͐͘͘͝Ȩ̴͇̦̠͙̣̻̯̎̈́̇̄̈́͂̕͠’̷̢̡̛̹͇̩̞̣̫̲͓̃͗͑̈́̀̽͗̋̇̈́͑̃̚͜͝S̷̡̼͚̬̣͓̙̟̃̋̍̑̅̈́̇̿͘ͅ voice being mad at ourselves again. In this case, I reckon that it’s another mind. Ṉ̴̢̢̡̡̪̖̫͕͕̹̥͇̫̈́̒͊̓̐̔͑̓̽͜͝Ǫ̸͈̝̖̼̳͕̓̎̅͊̄͐̆͒͘ ̷̙̜̱̗̠͉͕̥͐͌̉͌̈́͊́̋͘Ơ̵̡͔̺̻̥̜̭̞̫͔̟̞͔̟̝̌̓͛̉̿̉͘̚̚̕͘N̵̦̘͈̭̺̆̃̂̈́͛̈̓͆͌͛̆̈́Ę̶͈͎̲͖͕̩̯̭̬͓͚̗̉͜͠ had been recreating 2013 over and over until reawaking in 2015 without knowing what’s going on and what _had been_ going on for those two years. I guess, the voice in my head actually reflects a forgotten-.

s̴̜͓̤̽̍̋͜ḫ̵̨̨̧̩̜͇̳͚̠͑̒̂̓͐̓e̶̩͆̂͛͒͛̌̈́̆͐̊̓̂͝͝͝ ̵̼̬̪͈͒̅̈̎i̶͇̝͙̭͈̭͗͐̏͌͛̾͗̕͜ș̸̢̧̠̗̲̠̥̦̝̥̙̳̊̾̈́̓̊͋͋̌̑́̿̋̈́ ̴̧̥̣̜̥̱̣̍̃̊̓̓͛̕b̴͇̺̰̻̯͉̝̹̼̜̍̍̐̾̏͒̾́̽̈́͊̈́͜͝l̷̮̼̙͚͚͊̈́͆̏̈́̆i̶̡͍̗̤͙̹̙͔͓̥̖̿͗̓̈́̅͗̎̉͑ń̴̛̗̥̜̰̝̿̏͗̓̕͠d̶̻͒͋͂

̸̛̘̫͎̖̞͎̟̒̑͂͗̀̉̕͝į̵̲͖͔̖̹̦̲̣͍̃̈́̈̔̓̃͒̚͠g̸̺̟̪̭͓̗̐̄͆͐͐́̓̄̍͠n̴̡̺̠̂̄͒̃̎̒o̸̢̼̮̯͕̳̘̬͂̄̅͆̓̅ṛ̴̡̟͖̇͑́̃͋͛͗̈́͠a̶͕͋̋̿̊̓̍͋͋͗͝͝n̴̯̅͆͊̈̇̎̓͘͝͠ẗ̴̨̛̤̲͎̞̦͉̙́̈́̓̓͗̀͠

̷̳̼̖͍̗̹̘̳̪̗̜̓̚e̷̢̧͇͚̱̮̱̤̖͔̰̦̥͌̈͑̉̀̒̄̐͊̃̂͝͝v̴̨̘̹̳̞͛̿̍̏̇̚͘ͅi̷̡̜̺͈̇̀̊l̸̮̰̻̟̝̟̪̖̰̟̈̈́̈́̇̂̑͌

“Hello?” I hear E̷̡̠͈̻̹̻͖͇̤̺͇̞̺̝̍͜ř̷̲̯̯̭̠̦̜̗̳̞̊̏̊̌̂̐̄̕͠į̴̧̞͕̖̳̠͉̫̖̪̙́c̷̖̪̭͇̤̺͕͈̫̫̊̐͂ͅ waving his hand before my face. He abused you, mistreated you, hated you, you are one of them, you are just one of them, and you aren’t the creator, you aren’t the ~~g̶͓͖͈͕̯̠̬̠̘̰̉͂͋͒͂̅̑̈́̈͌̍̽̔̚̚õ̵̲͙̗̻̗͓̟̖̲̳̖͉̒̂̔̐͂̌̿̿̃̆͘͝͠d̶̬̬̦̤̺̓̿̆͋̓͘ ̴̠̟̺͍̞̗̠̇̿̄̇̓̍̿̎̾̎̓~~ chained to the devil’s grip!  
“Sorry, was caught up in some… thoughts,” I fake a smile that had been cut and scarred to a wide grin.  
I pray that we safely arrive at Seattle and live our calm lives with Juliet and his fire creature.

He’s not returning the hug. I try to grab his arm and eventually manage to reach his elbow first. I remember him wearing bracelets but his arm remains empty. He interprets my blind groping as an attempt to reach his hand. He closes his cold fingers around mine. “Where are your bracelets,” I give up. “What’s that?” he doesn’t know what I mean.

The likelihood of him not meeting his fire creature and not having a great job should be higher. Had I had just the slightest idea of what I was doing back in past is past is past is past, I’d study it to bring my slave back to us - the living.

“I have a gift for you,” he starts off somewhere else. “The truth seeker?” I ask him. “The what?” he replies pretty confused. “truth seeker,” I repeat slowly, because I expect that he didn’t hear me clearly. “I don’t know what that is,” he moves a chair up to my sickbed. The hollow aluminum legs of the chair S̷̹̭͇͈̤͕̝̀̓̅̑̀̈́̿̒͂̌̚̕͝C̶̡͚̲͈͕̥̲̭̹̤̜̣̗̦̈̈̐̈͘R̶̹̮̥͑͒̾͛͐͌̍̋͐̇̚͠͝ͅË̴͎̮͈̽̈́́̅̔͛͝A̴̳͂̓̂̂̏̅̓̆̔͆̕̕͝M̶̢̨͚̥̘̟̗̼̜̬̉̄̀̅̽̽͒ ̴̨͍͍͙̻̩͇̻͉̜̜̑͌͊̆̌͆̓̑̓̓̊͝ͅÃ̶̛̼̘͇͕͙͖̹̞̯͑̈́̆͂̏͛̈́̾̒͠Ṫ̶̨͉̳͓̫̞͎͓͖͆͐̈̑̀̌͆̏̆̏̇̕͜ ̴̡̨̳͙̙̝̼̥͎̤̺̼̉̐̀̇̄͗͗̕͘̚M̵̧̗̂̽́̕͝Ë̶̛̙́̈́͛̋̈́̊̈͆̄̕ ̵̨̬̠͉͔̹̮̳̠̰̎͗ as he draws it along the bottom.

“I’ve contacted Blackwell’s literature teacher. Mrs. Hoida.” he mentions my English teacher. I remember her being ascent because of severe pain. “What about her? Is she all right?” I raise my head a little. Ę̵̦͔̳͚̗͇̼͔̗̫̣̭͍̆̒̽̇̒̃̑͝͝V̸̨̘͙͚̮̰̜̰̣̳͓̙̩̯̬̈́̊͌͐̈́͊Ę̷̨̨̘̰̥͉̻̬͔̳͓̮͈̒̄͗͒́̾̌͆͋͜R̵͔̊͗͝Y̶̛̬͓̝͔̺̳̹ͅÖ̵̡̡̨̭̮̞̮̘̲̯́̅̃̽̉̓͒͜͠͝ͅN̶̡͖̱̝̦̻͇̺͓̈͒͋͒̊̄̓̈́̌̚͜͠ͅE̷̢̛̯͈̞̳͇̺̭̹͓̱͙͕̱ ̸̢̳͈̩̱̈́̒I̶͙̮̽̔́͊͊̏͌̚̕̚̕S̷̨̙͉͎̘͚̤̖̣̮͉̉͊̏͝ͅ ̷̧̤̠̞̱̠͚͚̟͍͈͑̎͊͘B̶͚͍͙̼̽̊̓L̵̛͎̝̹̗̪̂͗̓̽̽́̃̕͝I̶̯̔͆́́̿̔̎̍͋̓̆͌̎̓͝N̶̢̠̠͕̺͒̒̃͑́͊̃͋̈́̃̈́͜͜͠Ḑ̴̪̰̜̩̻̹̹͉͚̙̝̝̈́̀̃̔̍̓̉̓͠ ̴̢̞͈̇̐̑̂̄͛͛͂͛͂̄͐̽̃̔. “I asked her to translate it. I’m still not good,” he says.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Where is this going? “ ~~Our Saint~~ asked me to… Two years ago, ~~o̶͚͈͚̹̙̫̬̲͇̓̈́̉̀́́͛̓̑̓̎͜͠ū̴̲̥̯̻̼͉̹̬̥̗͓̱̟̙͊͑͆̓͝ͅŗ̵̝̞̗̬͎̹͙̫̺̝̂̿̉̿̿̓̾̽̀̂͜ ̶̧̢̟̖͖̥͕̰̫̣͕̤̺͎̂̆̈́͂̈́̍̏̌͒̌͐̋͋̚Š̷̠̔̏̈́͌͆̐̓͒a̷̡̩̪̗̞̭̳̹̯̱̝͚͕̎̑̄̔͝͝i̸̛͓͕͙̲͛̓̄͑͘n̷̛̛̩̳̬̙̭̠̰̤̻̘̘̖̽͋̃̇̓͘ͅͅͅt̷̨͍̎͛͋̂ ̸̛̹̙͕̹̩̤̈́͛͝~~ has asked me to translating… to translate ‘the rain’ for her. I made a crappy job. She disliked…” my question to him about what the hell he means obviously has flustered him. “Mrs. Hoida wrote this after translating, ‘̶̨̦͕̮͉̜̭͇̙͍͓̈́̕I̵̢̡̧̧̱̬̠͍̘̫̼͇̗̞͛̄͐͋̽͝ ̵̡̨̳͓͙̯͚̦̩͎̻̫̊̑̒̾̎̂̂͌̉͌̋͘͜͝͝a̶͈̪͔̫͈͓̻̤͕̓͋͊̇͗͂̀̐̿́͘l̷̢̛͇͍͓͓̂̉̈́̇͒̋̕ẇ̵̧̙̖̦͕̗̝̙̯̜̏̍̏̆͐͌̓̂̇̎͌̂ą̷͔̱̤͙͙̺̓͋͜y̴͈͌̑̌͊̎̄̾̄̋̒̉͗͘ṣ̶̂ ̵̦̣̥̲̼̰̎͆̎̄͗̊̇͌̅̓͠͝ͅl̸̢̧̛̤̩̫̙̖̘̩͔̼͈͎̾̍̄̊͑̿͂͝ì̷̧̧̮̗͔͍̙̣̤̻̤̃̀̊̇̒̂͑͐̎̄͜͝͝k̶̘̮͔̘̲̫͙̭͉͚̙̗̙̹̦̓̄̄͐͊͌̓̐́̓͑̚͘͠ȅ̷̘̐̐͋̀̔͊̉́͒̕͘͝͝ ̵̧̛̛̫̗̤͍͇͍͖̖̉͆̽͂̐̌́́͠ẅ̶̳̖̼͓̥̝̺͓̻̝̮́̔̋̒̐̓̏̔̚͝ả̵͕͓̺̭͑̒̀́̔͊̊̽̒͋͊̔͘̚͜l̷͉̥̠̗̙̯̮̼̞̬̱̒͂̈̎̔̄͌̑͆ķ̶̛̙̣͔̲͖̹̫͕͍̥͎̍̾̿̐̋ī̴̱̣̫̘̙̺̣̝̩͕̟͚̮̈̐͌͝ͅņ̵̰͖̙̦͖͕͖̱͛͛̈̔̈̅̅͝g̴̢̨͈̻̟͈̣͛̋̀̂̋̑ ̸̨͓̲̉̇̄́̔̔̓̄̕͘̕i̴̧̼͍͋̈́͌̊̈́ͅn̷̢̖̞̤̗̟̼̱̩͓̦̼̣̾̑̉̓̈́̃̃͌͊̔̔́̚͠ ̴̧̹̩̏͠a̸̹͚̣͔̘̗͈̻͆̔̿͆͝ ̵̨̮̟̹̪͒̓̾̈́̄̓͊̉̚ͅͅf̵̖̭̟̩̖͇́̏ͅi̸̺̜̰̹̬̗̖̝̯̭̓̒̏̏̏̚͜͜ř̷̨̛͎͕͇̤̪̯͉͖̭͙͈̲̥͖͌͗̓͒̾̑̿͋͛͌̎̈́͘ẽ̸̻̬̜͑̿͐̇͝ͅs̶̰͉͈͈͆̋̏͂̏̌͛̃ͅt̶̼̦͍̥̗̋͋̒̀̚͝ơ̸̢̖͓̜͈̪͚̟̂͊͐̎̀̔̊̊̈́͐̚r̴̨̢̨̰̱͓͔̰̪̘̮̙͋̑̊m̶̡̡̐̎̈́̑̉̄̍͆̑̊̌̕͝,̶̡̳̝̝̯̣̱̯͉͓̯̦̹̮̩͌͂̿̈̎͆͐͊̓͐̎ ̷̡̥̖̯͙̮̬͚͐̀͐̂̐̈́̉̉̈̿̕͘͝s̴̡̧̖̰̣̘̗̖͎̪̠̩̬͕͑̾̂̿͋͆̾̚o̵̢̮͇̦̬̪̯̘̣̖̤͔̊͑̓́̾͋̾̂̐͠ ̸̢̮͇͇̟̘̗̹̰̭̲̼̐͊͐͆̆̔̑̍̌̚͘͜n̶̟͉̤̥̳̪̪̻̊̽͊̏̈́̓̃͆̓̋̽̾̅͊͠o̸̞̩̼̥͛̈́ ̴̢̛͇͍͓̪̟̠̟̮̟͍̹͓̫̊̂̅̓̿̀̇̊̒͘̚o̴̧͈̪͖͍͈͎̜̰̖͉̠̊̐̅̃̓̃̐̽̿͂̑͘͝ͅn̴̛͉̘̎̋̈́̅̃͑͒͋e̴̦̭̹̦͉̞̖͈̔̈́͊̇͑̽͑̇̽̈̕͝͝͝ ̶̧̣̣͎̣͓͕͉͕̣͚̳̙͆̔͑͂̉͒͂̏̎̑͝c̴̢̯͈̳̲̠̭̣̱̖͇̃̊͐͜͝ä̷̛̛̮̳́̐̔̊̑̒͒̆͊̈́̕͝n̴̨̢̝̣̬̣̪̥͎̟̄͝͝ ̶̜̗̪͔͔̻̙͈̤̥̱͉̣͚̈̓̐̂̄̈́͜s̷̳͔̣͖͍͓͖̯͎̹̤͎͖͊̔̎̃̄͜e̷̥̪̥̝̝̩͋̔͑͛̏͆̒̽̓̕e̵̙͋̆͋̑͊ ̵̧͙̣͖̳̼̜͇̌͂̔̿͐͂̒́͝b̴̘̣̳̞̓̾̾͜͝u̸̝̘̬̲͔͉̱̅͑̅̊͑͒͋̎͋̕͝r̶̲̰͕̯̲̗̣̫̰̤̱̔͋̋̎̊̀ͅņ̶̩͎̩̱̮̥͙͎̫͐̏̓̽̋͋͗͋͛̍̕͘̚̚ͅi̴͚̇̂͛͑̈́̽̉͆̈̆̓̌̚̕͠n̸̡͈̞͍͎̪̥̠̦̬͙͓͎̓̾͋́̽͆̐̇̒͝g̵̻̗̞͉̫͕̊̃̅̃̈́̿͐̕.̷̨͔̩̪̯͎͕̈́̓̋͆̉́̋͂̑’̴̡͓̭͖̠̭̱͓͋̂́͒̿̈́̔̍̌͛͂͘̚͠,” he adds.

“You want to hear it?” he stammers. Why is he being so agitated? ̸͉̠͉͋͐͌͂̑͗͒̾͋̔͘I̸̢̛̛̤̤̣͔͈͖̋̅̄̑͑̽͒̊͐͑ ̷̝̝̖̪̫̥̱̣͚͐͋̋̍̎͐͗̚͝A̷̧̡̧̨̛̭̟̦̫͖̯̜̬͕̖͊̾̍̎̔̉̄̓̋͐͐̎͌ͅM̷̛̘̣̮̤̞͖̞̂̈́̿̃̇͆̑͛͆̚ ̶̺͍̗̺̫̲̦̟̬̭͇̫̞̙͂̓͋̄̈̿͐̔̈́͛̄̈̐͠ͅB̵̢͓̜̗̻̞̒̅̃̇͛̄̅̇̍̽̽̕͠L̶̛̰͋̉̾͋͌̈̉̌̈̅͝I̷̝͉̓̿̈́̚͝N̴͍̤̼̹̬̼̻̻̎̐̉́̅̋͒D̴͈̓̔͒͠,̵̢̛̹̭̞̭̥͖͇̞̜͔̰̲͙̜̽͊̌͊̎̀́̇̇̅̋̕͠ so, why all the hesitation. “Why are you so on the edge about this? What’s wrong?” I grab his other thin arm. Still, no bracelets to find. I blindly search my way up to his neck. “Why are you…” he doesn’t finish his question.

The cold golden cross of ~~o̶̥̞̰̣͔̫̼͚̤͚̹̖͎̺͐̀̓̒̉̀̆͒̀̋͝ͅȕ̶̺̘̺̠̜̺̻̼̜͓̬͔̈́̾͘r̴̞̠̹̫̞̹̪͇̓̈́̄͛̔̌̀͋̕͘͘͝͠ ̵̔͑̓̍͜S̵̢͚̺͔̘̆̎̊͘̕̚̕͜͠á̷̺̖͕̜̲͔͍̿̄̕͘i̵̲͎̬̼͉̻͚̻̇̆̀͐̈̉̈͆̚͘͜͠͝͝ͅn̶͕̫͎̗̹͔̯̝̘͉̪̼̝͍̈́̊̽̈̔̈́̊̔͆̓̃̌͠ṱ̴̢͙̏̍̒̍͊͠͝͠ͅ ̷̡̛̯̰̞̞̯̼͓̤̮̌̇̊̈́͑͘̚~~ has silenced us both in a heartbeat. Ề̸̢̡̺̩̰̙̖͜r̴̡͖̠̣͍̪̰̓̊̑͊̈́̆̒͑̃͂̽̚͜͝i̸̡̨̧̺̙̟̞͙̖͔̋̏̅̽̎̈̓͘̕͝͝͠c̷̠̤͗̊̄͛͌̐̾͑̏͌͘̚͘͜͜͝ ̷̩̲̍̒̇͌̎̆̎ͅͅ sighs.  
“ ~~G̷̨͓̙̥͖͎͒̆͂͆͂̓̔͗̚ǫ̵̨̢̻̤̮̺̰̼̫͔̣̟͋̈́̿̈́̅͌͐͜d̵͎̥̲̙͚̥̯͊͘͠ ̵̼͍̻͉̗̒͋͐̀͒̂ͅḃ̶͙͈̍̃͝l̸̲̘̜̣̭̮̩̹̗͚̦͐ͅͅĕ̶͎̻̺̦̤̥̟̘̈́̄͠͝s̵̛͔̯͈̜̮̲̞̪̓̎̄͊́̉͆̆͊s̵̡̬̯̩̊͌̂̔̄̋͋́̈́̈́͝ ̵̡̩̣̋̈́̒͐̊ḧ̸̳̭̰̹̟͇̹̦̙́̽̃̎̽̄̎̽̈̌ȩ̷̨̠͎̤̳̩̩̭̥̯̤̭̬̜́̈́͌̔̈͗̉̇́̕ŗ̶̮̊~~ ,” I squint holding back my tears. Meanwhile he fetches a book or a few sheets of paper. Seemingly, he has untied his necklace to move away. The cold cross remains in my hand.

“The rain,

i̵͍̯͆̃̓͛͗̃̿͝͝t̴̫̫͘’̸͙͚̺͎̣̲̠̑̍̌̆̓̈́̽̃̕͝s̸̨̨̬̮̠̲̰̻̯̳̗͍͠ ̴̨͖̻̬̥͙̺̘̹́͌̾̌̊͊̇̏͗̈́͜͝b̸̩̜͊̄͑͂͋̑̽͠u̴̡̡̯̗̫͔̺̥͎̙͖͍̓̆̿̏̅͝͠͠r̵̢̢̻̤͎̻̲͔̦̘͙͙̝̖̿̆͊͛͊͗̕͘͘͝n̵̢̥̤͈̰̭̞͙̼̒į̷̛̪̗̉̄̆́̆̾͑n̶̢͓̳̬͙̻̩͑̅̿̎́̎̄̂̏͛͝g̵̡̤͈̹̥̟͚̬̓̐̂͂͒̕͠,̵̢̞͙̗͖̤̟͑́̋̍̒͛͌͋ ̸͖̫͚͓̘̝͓͔͓̈̑͌͆́f̷͇́̇͛̿̓͌̆̋̈́͆̉͝͠͝i̷̙̩̮̘̝̝̖͈̮̖̩̲͋̄̄ͅŕ̴̡͍̝̦̩̤͖̱̪̖̏͗̓̈́͛̒̈͑e̸̜̳̟̲̙͍͑̚͘͝ͅ,̸̛̣̼̳̜̫̙̯͚̥̼͚̻̹̺͊̎͆̈̓͒͜͝͠ ̴͎͔̩͖̹͍͎̊̽̓̊͆͒͗͂̾̚į̵̩̼̱͓͈͚͈̙̙͍͙̉̑̊̓̀t̸̠̪̭͓̠̲̜̎ ̷͔̠̱̈́̊̅̾̄́̏̄́͋͂̀͜͝ḃ̷̨̨̨̧͉̫͚̹̮̼̝̦̹͗͛͊̽̇̂̇ư̴̧͕͇̲̝͔̈́͆̋̏̅̚̕̚͝͝ŗ̶̭̼̠͎͉̮̌̍̿̓͐̈́͛̔̕͜n̸̡̢̡̜͇͍̺͒̒̈́͊̏͒̈́̏s̷̫̋ ̸̺̟̘̠̟̯̩̟͋a̶͈̹͔͂̔͗̃̎͑̅̀͋͛̎̚̕̕ť̴̨̙͎͙͍̬͈͆̈͋̈́͊͒̿̐̐͝͝ ̵͍͔͎̭̠̞̤̰̳̟̰̼͕̍̉̓h̶̡̛̩͔͉͕̬̝̝̮̗̝̝̍̎̋͐̔̿̄̐̋͌̍̓̑͝ơ̵̪̥͂̏͛́̍̾̒̽͒̏̽͘͝l̶̢̧̠̥̙̻̰̼͕̥͔̻̪̈́̽̓̈́͘ē̶͓̩̱͈̭̤̟̋͌́̋͗͑̀́̉̂̿ ̴̧̡̞̭̪̪̟̼̣͚̟͔͔̱͇̿̇̑̏̃̕̕i̸̧̞̩͇̜̰̗͇̹̣̘̇ͅṋ̴̡̹̞̫͚͔̩̪̣̱̥̋̅̎͊̌ẗ̸͕͗͘ơ̴̝̦̟̭͓͎̜̣̻̒̈̄͒̏͛̕̕͠ͅͅ ̵̛͕͖̥̻̈̎̒͐̽̉̾̌̑̄̈͠͝ͅṃ̶̧̧̨͙̰̱̠̱̖͎̹̹̤̈́̈́̈́̂y̷̨̆̃̾̏̍̏̓̀̽̄̑̕̕ ̴̺͊͐̍͊̽̋̓̎̔̚͠͠͝b̵̗̼̭̦̗͔͈̹̣̟̤̽͗͗͜o̴̢̘̞̹̯̱̦̭̤̠͇͐͑̏̋̉d̷̡̧̛̦̥͎̩̙̜̰͖̮̹̤̻̓͒̂̈́͊̀̎̑͋̓̃y̸̧̡̢͙͔̣̦̦̠̗̗͖̠̆̈́͆͗̔̅̈́͂̊͊̔̃͜͠͝,̵̩͂̑̊͐̏̇͆͐̆̃͂͘͠͝͝ ̶̢̺̞̮͇͛̄͗͘̕a̸̖͇̳͓̤͇̱̠͎̗̬͙̣̘͓͋͂ ̶͉̼̮̼̬̼̝̟̣̦̻̺̈́̎̽̌͗͛̂͌͆̌̒͒͗ḃ̷̡̧͙̝͙͎̙̳̫̣̖̯͉̉͗̇̌̆̆̄̏͘̚͘͠͝ḽ̶͌̕̚u̷̧̨̞̺͈͈͍̬̠̯̞̙͉̱̪͋̃̾͐͑͒͊̓̒̀͘͘͠͝r̷̨̯̦͕̫̦̤̬̯͇͙̜̜̤͆̒͆̉̓̿͒̾̑̃̕̚ ̴̜̖̘̼̳̞̘̱͙̗͑̂ô̸̥̔̓̓̍͒̔͊f̷̛͍̬͈̅͒̌̆ ̸̘̯̯͔̜̠͓̯͓̋̃̓͂͜m̴̧̢̼̗̲̼̌̈́̓̐͌͂̒̊̿e̴͔̫͙̦̫̫̼̙̫͕̫͝m̸̧̼̥̺̳͍̪̫͇͖̠̰̜̭̜̊͊͐͑̕ơ̷̦̩̞̬̼̆̈́͋̍͒̈́̍͆̽̅̅͛͘̚͜͜ŗ̴̧̛̞̝̆̀͋̀̄̿̽̋y̷̺̣̩̓͒̀͝,̶͍͉̌̍ ̵̛͈͉̤̭͖̍͑̑̇̾̓ͅę̸̧̺̰͔͙̪͙̱̭̬̝̤̄͋̃͋̊͜v̵̡̧̹̺̟̻̰̳͈̭͙̭͉̂̉̀͠ͅͅe̴̯͚̊͂͑̏̒͒̓̽̒̉͒̃͝r̴̢̥̮͓̗̗̬̠͕̱̅y̸̖̑̐̔̈́̀̔͗̆̓̿̎ț̸̨̡̡̛̬̜̙̳͉̒̐̅̆̽͂̈́͗̈́h̷͚͎̮͔͚͙̥̗̹̗̑͊̇̃͠i̸͉̥̣̝͒͛̈́̃̌́̓̔͠n̶̨̲̗̹̈́͛̐͂̌͆̎̏͗̓̈́͛g̶̛̮̺̦͇̓̒̾́̆̈́͌̈́͛̈́͜͠͝͠ ̴̧̨̬͕̮͇̰̳̺̻̼̫̲̳̓̆̌́̍̂̒̈́̚͘͜͝ḧ̵̞̠̺̪̗́̿̆̈̀͂ͅù̶̧̌̈́̉̏̐͗̓̾͋̊͑̕ͅr̶̨̡͉̬͖̞̙̥͕̈́̐̓͋̀̀̒̓̓̃̇͜͝ţ̸̩̻̮̣̖̹͚̎̇̃̄̊͝s̴̡̥̲͎̺͙͈͛̈́̃͐̈́͐̽̉͆,̵̤̥̦̲̲͒̽͐̔̀̆̂̽̊͊̚͘ ̴̢̛̭̯̮̫͕͎̦̫̬͙͆͋̀̐̿̋̂̓̐̉̏̎ḛ̸̫̒̕ͅv̸̨̡̢̠̝̗̘̯̹̤̥́̎͝ͅe̷̛͛̂͑̑͆̓͂̊̋̚ͅr̴̬͉̍̄̃͐̄̎̔ͅy̴̧̨̢̢̡̛̼̼̠͓̬̜͔̑̋̑͝t̵͇̺̞̭͓̯̫͖̝͙̞̓̾̆͑͂̾̾̃̈̀͒̚̕̕̚ͅh̴̼̲̑̌i̵̢̧̢̻͙̲̦͐̈́̽͒̏n̴̨̖̼̬͈͍̣̬͙̥̰̣̜̂g̵̨̧̛̛̬̰̞̬̺͖͐́̋͊̇͋͛̐̂̕͘ ̸̛̯̰̫̫͎͉̬̖̱͔̣̲͕̇̅̓͌͊͌̏̈́̕̚h̶̡̡̩̘͉̠̙̝͎̜̟̯̬̤͑̉͑͋͂͂͌̈́͒̇̃̕̕u̸̡̳̪͍͚̬̱̻͕̦̪̮͙͕̾̇r̶̀̃̐͛͆̾̈́̔̉̍͐̃͘͘͝ͅt̴̨̨̗͙͇͇̯͙̙̘̩̗͑̋̑͗͋̐ș̸̨̧̡̛̪̯͈̞͎̥̩̺̰̔͆͂̃̿̽̈́̀͋̃̍͠,̷̧̗̬̹̘̺̳̜̻͚͆ ̶̢̡̛̗̬̬̮̮̮̮̺̠͊̄́͊͋̅̒̓̑͝͝ẽ̶̡̛̛̥͕̙̋̎̉͂̏̇̔̉̽͠ͅv̶͙͇̼͇͈͉͎͔͇̟̇̽̄͜ͅȩ̷͎̙̣̖̰̫̼̦͖̂̈́̒̈̂̍͐͊͐̈́́̕͜͠͠r̸̨̨̢̯̣̫͉͙͓͕̼̩͉̖̽̉͛̓͋̒̑͂͐̚͝y̷̦͂͂͗̓̕ţ̸͎̪̥̦͉͖̭̖̗̼͇̑̇̂̕h̷͍̗̩͍̬̞̪̗̝̲͙͑͐̀̍͒͂̉̔̆́͑͘͝͠i̷̥͎̽͗͌̀̒̏̒̚̕͝ņ̴͇̜̟̪̖̻̪̞͚̣̜͎̉̔̈́͛̏́̄̄̇͗̅͐̑̕͝g̶̡̝̮̮̯͉͈̾ͅͅ ̷̡̧̪̤̭͕̝̝̞͖̥̅̐͜͜ͅh̶̨̡̖̭̙͇̥͕̩̳̺̯͊̀̃͗̏̈̿̓̓͜ṵ̵̻̥̘̱͙͓̆͐͆̒̎͋̋̑̇̀͘͝͝͠ͅŗ̴͙͕̫̥̳̬̪̤͓̗̝̌̇̍͐̀̏̌͂̾͗̌͆ͅť̴̮͙͇͖̙̯̺͍s̶̛̜͙͎̲̥͕̹͇̈́̌̽̈́̈́̉̈̓̎͗͊,̵͉̱͔̗̺̥̟̫̘̺͇͔̲̥͛͝ ̸̻͎̰͙̄ͅë̷̖̼͎̘̜̫̰̼̻͕̝̗̳̱̈́̀̒̃̂v̸̨̢̲̄̃̓̈́̾͝ȩ̸͈̦͕͔̺̮̱̭̩̬̤͇͒͌͗͑̅̄̾͒ṟ̸̢̳͙̝̼̜͙͙̪͉̹̩͆̀̈̃͒̑̃̌̓͘͝͝y̷͈̤͍̑̎̑̏͗̅̎͘t̷̡̠̔̂͂̊̑̓̎̎̅͆͘͘̕͠h̷̨͔͍̹̠̥͉͍̻͓̊i̸͍̻̓̏͊n̴̛̪̈́͐̎͑͆̅̌͝͝g̴̢̪̪͚̤̥̹̥̪̬̭̲̽̀͑͆̐̿̃̄̾͗̄̓͑͘ ̶̢̙̬̳͖̜̫͇͕̫̹̙̗̓̅̑̇̒̈́h̷̡͖͆̓̍̌̐̽̓̄̊̐̇̓̉u̷̬̲̖̝͔͖͒͑̇r̸̨̛̗̦̦͖̜͈̝͊͂̒̍̅͐̚t̴̢̗͓̳̃̈̌̍̂̏͠s̴̢̧̗̬̜͍̪͊̔̇͘ͅ,̵̨̛̬̟̮̼̻͎̪̘̌͋͘̕̕͜͜͝ͅͅ ̷͍̠̖̙̯͖̦̣̂̅ͅͅe̷̝̾͐̂͆̔̈́͘̚v̵̲̺͑͛͒͋͋̈́͒͑̄̍͝e̶̖̭̼̯̖̽̈̈́r̴̢̛̦̲̖̮̜͖͈̝̙͍͖̜̈̏̂͗̋̇̍̆̂̕͝y̶̫̯̻̲̳̰̎̅̄̂͒͛͐̈t̵̗̰͋ĥ̵͖̈́̓̓̇̄̽̉i̷̡̹͎͎̫̝͉̝͉̪̭̖̰͂́̽͂̇̌̓͂̑ͅn̵̺͗̓͗̎͝͝͝ģ̷̛̞̞̹̭͔̞͙͊͛̐̋̊͘͠ ̶̫̥̼̠̰̜̙͈̪̏͂̉̿̌̃̽h̶͉̟̬̮̩̗̜̗̎̄̊͝ụ̷͚͇̻̭̪̥͚̮̫̪̣̫͌̓̕͝ř̶̠̙̳̫̰̤̠͔̑̒̈́̀͒̕t̷̡̡̛̰͔̮͕̗̅̇̋̍͝͝s̶̛̻̪͈͉̖̟̼͕̞̭͓̉̍̄̂̐͑͒͘̕͠,̷̡͖͎̺̮̣̺̱̤̖̱̳̓̀͗͆̿̉̑͌̈́͋̒͑͘͜ ̷̨̖̘͍̹̰̫̔̈́̓͊͑̆͛͝ẻ̵̡̧̛̳͕͙̤̬̈̏̈͝v̸͈̱̲̖̲̇̋̔̕͝e̷͕͑̊̋̾̌̅̓͑̑͑͘ṛ̴͈̝̱͇̏̅̋̀͛͝͠͠ͅy̷̪̭̮̩̺̻͖͈͆̇͂̈́́͆̒͝t̸̥̦̓ḧ̶̢͚̱̤́̃͑̒̅̑̊͐̕͜͝ͅî̴̧͈̖̭͚̤̰̠̘̱͗̎n̴̨̝̗͖̜̬̹̤̩͒̈́̈́̆́̈ͅg̸̡̡̛̘̝̪̯̹̟̗͖̩̲̮͎͊̎̒͌̓͒̈́͌̀̅͜͠͠ ̵̘̦̖͍̼̠̰̗̌͐͋̇̐̓̏̈̄̃̒̋̏͝͠ḧ̴͍̌̓̆̉̊̑͗͑̀͒̋̇͝ͅu̷̲͈͉̗̦͖̫̓͌̓̑͛͒̊̈́͗͊͗̉ͅŗ̴̢͕͍̱͖̺͍̲͖̖͌̈́̃̇̾̉̽̉̽͒̚͝ţ̸̧̛̙͙̤̠̦̺̜̱̦̈́͛̎̌͗̌̇̍̿̈̓̚͝͝s̸̢̢̬̻̈́͑͋͋͘,̶̛̲̭̤̥͙͔̰̯͕̮̦̓̑̔̂̓̒͑͊̈͛̋͝ ̸̛͕̦͕̹̩̞̠͉̔͂̈́̌̅̌̄̚͜e̴̳̻͇̜͖̪̦̣̹͓̗͙͐̄̿͑̇̍͗v̵̧͙̮̣̼͐̅͊̃͗͒̓̌̓͛̕͝ȩ̵̮͙͑̾̓́̂͋͘͝r̷̫͉̺͙̦͛̆͜͝ÿ̵̼͎̰̻̝͓̺͚́̓͛͒͊̔̃̉͂́̚ͅţ̵̞̭͇̳̄h̶͓̜̞͓̹̗̝͓͔̙̽̽̈́̈́̑̉̑̔̓̾͘͠ĩ̴͎̱̈́̿͂̈́̑̑͗̍͊̓͘͘n̶̢̢̫̰̮̥͍̥̩̝̿̐͗̉g̶̰͛̌͛̽͑͝͠ ̴̮̋͛̊̀̒͂̅͌̚h̴̢͙̳̲̯̻̝̼̗͑̔͑́̄ų̵̈̍̓́̈́̒͜͝͝r̸̼̫̻͔̝͕͂͝t̶̢̲͈͑͐͒̍̍̐͂̈͆̓͝s̸̛͇͚͖͆̐,̴̧͇̬͔̟͉̞͙̠̟̆̎ ̴̨̦̘͕̦̻͔̱̝̤̳̺̃ͅͅę̶̡̛͈̏̇̓̚͠ͅv̶̹̟́̄̐͛̂͌̎̿̅̔̉̐͝ę̸̄̐̈̈́̏̌̍̓͌̽̅̕͝r̵̜̣̦͔̗̜̬̞̣͚̮̞͍̈́͒͑͛̈́̈́̓ỳ̷̟͎̘͎̠͇̣͎̽̾̏̊̅͆̅͘͜t̶̜͖͈̞̩̞́͐̃͌̈͒̕͜h̷̗͙̉͐̐͌̔̍̍̅͋̂̓̕̕ḯ̵̛͓̠̩̯͎̣͍̖̱̗̜͑͒̔̓͑n̶̨͉̤̐̆̋̈́͌̈́̕͠g̶̢̢̢̫̰̩̠̫͖̣̳̝̻̦̓̌͑̅̕͜͠ ̴̦̰̖̝͖̩̭͓͎̝̎͐͋͋̀͑̿͗̇͛͐̊̕ͅh̴̼̙̘̖̠̬̰̲̓̇̄̎̉̑̓́̚u̸͓̳̭͎̬̔̇̋̂̊̓̀̿r̷̟͔̦̝͓̳͊͗̊t̴̨̢̙̱̩̳̺̗͕̘̭̹̜͍̾̏̒̂͆̾͊̾͂̐͂̚̚͝ͅș̶̰̝̇͂̒͂̅̄̓̚,̴̢̱̙̹̙͚̞̖̠̻̩̯̤̏̔̒͐͐̉͜͜͝͝ ̸̡̙̜̼̝̯̠̲̩̮͚̏̏͒̒̓̔̃̈́͒̃̽̒͜͝͝ě̵̢̧̡͚͕͙̖̖͕͙̘̣̙̽̾͂̕v̴̧͓̗͉͖̠͉̥̭̓́̍ë̵͙̗́̈́͝r̶̨̨̡̧̗̣͕̫̜͙̺͉͎͜͠ÿ̷̥̖́̒͑͆͘͝t̷͓͎̻̠̝̰̲͎̟͉̮̅̄̎̍̀̏̐́̈̀̍͑̏͗͘h̴̢̧̟̠͍̠̯̲̠͑̓͌̄̏̔͜͜͝ͅͅͅḯ̷͓̰̞͔̥͓̣̃͘̚͠ņ̵͍̳̣̤̞̣̤̰͓͂͑̄͑́͘g̴̡̟̳̪̖̜̲͓̥̜̬̞̥̍̈́̄̈̿̐͑͗̆̍ ̶̧͔̻͙̹̗͇͔̱̣̘̖̌͒̐̈́̔͊̓͘͜͝͝ͅh̴͎͋͋̆̏͝͝u̴̡̨͚̯͓̖̟̰͍̖̞͔̮̅̑̒͊͑͆̆͊͐̚̕͠r̸̹̳͑͐̐̈͗̓t̷̺̟̱͈̣̠͔̖̓͛̀͋̿̀̅͌̈́́̃̈́̇͝͝s̶͙̩̼̯̯̄͜ͅ,̸̛͖̼͔̋̀̽͆̑͝͠ ̷͚͍͔̆̓e̵̦̫̞̻̿͂̅͛͂̔̒͌̋̆̕͝v̵̛̺̠̙͇͎̯̹͓͈̻̥̭̠͑̆̇e̸͖͙͙͆͋͐͌̎̂̉̇̃̉̔̚͝r̶̛̭̦̹̹̰̘̝̣͉͌̏́̑̐̊͘ÿ̷̮̟̖͕̫̝̘̼̗ţ̸̮̣̲͍͚̺͉̦̰͜͝h̵̢̤̺̫̬̺̦͎̙̔͊̐͆͂̉͝ï̴̡̼͇͕͉͕͔̱̫̹̝̳̀̈̐̅̑̇̾͑̽̕͝ņ̶̧̞͍͎͚͝g̴̗͒̽̔͗̂ ̴̛̰̭̣͍̩̠̖̽̈́͂͒͊̒̾̈́̈́͠ḥ̴̢̨̠̹̅͌́̍̕ǔ̶͙̑̎̈́͊̓͘͜͜r̷̢̻̯̗̜̝͔̩̫̗͙̼͂̉͆̓̉̐̑̇͛̓́͘̕̕͝ͅͅt̷̢̠̙̰͉̮̂̌̐̅̓̈́̕͝s̷̳̭̞̬͚̺͙̈́̒̾̅̊̈̈́͑̊̂̓͐̕ͅ,̸̢̯̺̙̤̜͚̮̏̂̎́̊̾͊̈́ͅ ̷̨̛͎͉̰̯͇͖̥͚̩͋̎͋̒̄̓̇̈́͘͝ͅę̵̢͉̰̦̬̰͚̝͚͈̜̈́͐̀̃̋̌̈́̿̃̕͝v̸̡̡̧͔͖͚̞͚̫̣̲̖̦̌̈́͜e̵̹̤̐̌͊̈́̿̋̌̉̉̂͑͜͝r̴̛͍̫͐̊̈́̇̈́̃͑͠͝y̵̘̪̫̹͎̼̤͔̺̮̔̉̓̚͘t̵̨̫̙̙̘͎͇͈͓̝͍̣̜̾̍̏̈́̊̂̿͘ͅh̴̰̭̫͇͓͉̮̺̿̆̎̓͐̐̚̕͜͝͝į̸̨̡̛̯͇̞͙̖̲̦͓͚̬̟̙̿́̉͌̈͝n̵͕͐̑͑̽̽̿̽̉̈́͘͝g̸͎͔̹̼̲̑̂̆̕ ̴̙͕͆͑̈́̇̏͗͐̒̑͗͝ȟ̶̡̟̗͔̳͈̝̺͉̖̦́̍̃̓̓̓̀͝ͅu̵̦͍̦͂̿̈́̔̅̕͝r̸͖̈́͗͂ẗ̸̰̳̫̳͉̞̥͇̘͙́̆̔̃̌͊̃̑̃͗̅̎͝ͅs̴͔̯̫̭̜̻̭̖͚͉͈̞̃̽̽̽͒̏̇͜,̶̤̫̟̀̔̏͋̄͑̈́̈́̕͝ ̸̞̰̭̼͙̇͒̿̎̋̉̀͋̂̚͠ę̶̢̰̤̠̪̥̳̜̮͖̺̥̺̪̆̏̐̄̔̍́̿̈́̔͊̑v̴̤̜͉̼̈͂͗̊̍̆ȩ̵̡͇̻̗͖̝͍̼͈͒͗͐͑̉͗͗̒̄͊̉̀̊͜ͅr̴̨̧̛̼̤͕̲̱̳̱̐y̵̖̬̯̠̙͇͐̇́̅̽̄̔̈́̚͠͠t̷̙̺̰͈̬̝̞̥̻̘̱͉͓͂̃̿̈́̋̓̓̽͆̋̕͘͝͝h̸̡͖̗͚͙̙̭͕̭̦̞͕͗̌̇̿̅̉͋̎̇͠ḭ̴̢̱͚̮͙̟̝̝̠̜̒̆͗͊̓̐̄͘͜͝͝n̶̡̛̟͕̦̞͎͔͔̞̦̒͗̀͋̇̌̑̍̔̍̉g̷͍͍̹̤͘ ̷̨͓̙̲̻̤̦̠̫̖̇̋̆̇̈́ḧ̷̲̬͓͉̰̹͉́͗̈́̅̑ů̸̪̬̓͆r̶̹̹͎̹̞̘̙̰̱̱̙̮͌̿͗̾͑͋̏̌̐͒͝͠ͅt̶̻̜̃̏͛̐̀̍̔͊̉̉͘̚͝s̸̺̦͎̣̤̹̖͎͎͖̓̇͆̕ͅ,̴̢̛̟̳̮̖͕̝̳̘̰̈́͊̈́̇̒̌̐̽̉̚͝ ̵̦̩̭͕̗̤̠̥̘̠̽̿̒͑͊̈́͜é̴͕̳̺̋v̵͎̄͛͋̎̿̈́̆̅̉͋̑̔̈͠ė̸̝̀̇͗́͛́̚͝ȓ̵͍̟͓̗̠̯̩̪̯͚y̴͚̻̼̩͑̉̔̕͝ẗ̶̺͍̮͇́̃̉̃̑h̴̨̢̹̟͓̬̯̯̩͈̹̫̆̈́̽̌̂͐͜͜i̸̡̢͉̰͚̪̮͇̲͈̅̽̊̊͛̆̈́̿̄͘͠n̷̡̲͈͎͖̭͔͈̓̄͜͠g̷̛͙͈̥̃͗͑̓͐̾́͑͠ͅ ̶̨̛̛̲͎̖͙̯̺̿̓̋́̿̿̀h̵͍̱͈̖̃̔͑ų̷̪̺̺͈̲̫̘͈͖̥̎͗̓̽̏̑̏͛͂̐̅͊̾͋r̵̡͓͓̻̥̗̟̦̘̰̂͘͜t̴̡̨̫͙̫̦͚̫̳͖̯̯̠̔͌̌̀͒͊͠ͅs̴͚̿̌ͅ,̴̢̾̈̽̿̃̈́͐̾̔ ̶̳̗͖͎̂͗̇̃ͅẻ̵̬͓̈́̋̓̚v̴̨͖͈̓̒́͛͛͊͌͑̔̚͠ĕ̷͕͎̥̟̞͎͈̭͖̟̆̈́̚̚ṟ̶̤̊̈́̆̄̀͋̚͜͠y̷̧͍͖͚͇͙̜͎̫͇̰͌͌͘͠t̸̢̤͋́ȟ̸̰̮͓̰̜͗̍͌̋̆́̀͂͝ȉ̷̙̙̻̅̽̎̚͝ñ̶̙̜̳̮̐̎̂̓̓̀̑͋̐̓͆͘͝g̶̨̡̼̹̩̮̙̩̱̭̘̽ͅͅ ̷̢̨̲̼̻̼͖̘͍̳̘̒͛̀̅́͗͋̃̆͝ͅh̴̢̡̰̞͈͓̺̞̜̮͙͔̎̓̔̓̚͜u̷̡͈̭̩̬̳̮̗̙̩̯̬̲̓r̸̠̩͇͔͈̥͔͓͎̦̺͈̔͒̈́͆̉̓̃̆̚͘̕̚͜t̶̻̼̮̯̰͗͝s̵̤̖͓͍͍͖̀̿̋,̸̭͖̼̻̥̣̠̙̈́́͐͐̋̃̽̀̂̚͠͝

_i can’t take it anymore_

Ỏ̵̰̝̈́͋͘͝ͅư̵̙̮̈́͂̎̌̏̊̐̃͊̀̅̑r̵̛̻̦͈̓̀͑̐̇̍̐͒͐̂̍ͅ ̴̧̮̟̜͚͖̮͔̻̮̭̖̊̄̃̅̃̄͐̂͝͝S̴̬̟̗̼̠͇̲̦̻͇̰̱̅̀̎͌͑͝͝å̸͎͑i̸̛̻͕̖͐̒n̷̨̢͓̩̱̯̙̞̬͖͂̏̎̍͆͛̚t̸̙͖̠̰̞̙̮͎̽̊̒̍̔͋̋̔̋̈́͂͠͝’̶̛͈̥͈̲͚͂͆̈̃̊̐̄̃̑̒͊̅ș̸̯͒͊̌͑̐̔̔́͘̚͝͠͝ ̵͉̽̾̂̓̓̏̏̕͝ͅc̴̯̿r̶̦̰̗͙͕̬̮̾̈́͗̇̓͛͑̈́́͌̕ͅợ̶̙͇͖̟͙̜̞͙̗̻͉̀̓̈́͊̾̚͜ş̴̡͔̘̮͖͍̣̃̊͂s̶̨͖͔͔͚̲̩̯̪̀̽̉ ̴̢̛̳͓̬͎̩͚͐͗͌̍̿͐̍͊̆̕͝c̷̢̢̢̮͍͚̝̰̮̜̖̻͇͙͒̓͆̆͆͌͋̃̕̚ô̸̡̧͉̱̥̳͎͎̞͇̭̗̙̯̕ȏ̷̬̜̣̖̱̠̝̎͐́̇̔̓͊͗͌̆̈͊͠l̷̛̲͔̫̭̣̝̦̣̤͇̜̹̣̺͚̊̉̉̂̄̌̌̔̎͒̉͝s̸̨̨̘̱̜̻̔̈́̒͂̅͆̾̒́̂̽ ̶̲̘̳͙̱̩̮͙͍̖͔̂̔͂̈̒͐́̍̒̾̓į̶̣͈̯͚̝̝̤̩̗̗̳̜̆̇n̶̪̜̈́͛̆̎̒̓̅̉̎̃ ̷̧̦̖̥̰͈̖̣͍̬̲̝̃͋̏m̸̻̟͋̿͋͗̍́̆ͅy̴̨̼̥͖̞̰͖̪̙̼͒ ̵̻̲̘̬͔̘̣̇̆̈́͆̑̉̀̊̕͠h̵͍̼̟̳͛͂͂͂̊̏͛̚ͅa̵̧̖̩̦̮͙̻̭͍͙̠͕̞̿͜n̵͈͔̥͎̙̩͒͗̐̈̆̌͌͜͝d̴̲͚́̈́̓̔̉̈́͋̃͐̚͝ͅ.̸̜͍̖̱̟̗̗̲̔͐̈̑̐͐͆͗̕͠ ̸̹̯̖̤̖̍́̓̓̈̿̏“̴̢̛̫̟͈̮̘͚̘͔̣̩̈̌̐̏̀̈́͋̓̕Į̵̦͈̞̳̰̭͈̞͍̗̪̤̑̃̏̎͐̍͝͝ͅ ̶̲͕̲̙̱̲̰͎̓͂̋͆̔̔͜͜͠c̶̨̧̢͙̦̘̙̖̮̯̄̒͌a̴̧̧̡̛̠͕̲̻̹͇͒̄̉̎̈̑̒̕̚͠n̸̡̡̡͎̤͙̥͔̺̝̫̳̱̤͈̒̑̑͊̉̋̀͒ ̷̨̘͉̬͌̿i̸̢͚͈͛͛͆̋̈́͐̑̆͘m̵̧̧͕͖͖̜̈́͌̒͊͊̄̋̇͠͝͠͝ä̴̤͉̼͙̠́͊͋̃̌͛̓̈́͠g̸̞̜̾̍̓͑͘i̶͙̲̪͈͗͊̎̾̾̓̿̓͗̑̍̈́̓͝͝n̴̢̝̤̜̝͖̜̭̗̋̉̀͋͊̐̎͌̇͌͋͝e̵̢͔͔̯̭̬̪̝̠͎̟̣̳̳̠͋̂̅͌̚ ̸̧̹̹͚͙̎̈́ͅẅ̷̨̟͔̘̯̘̭̆͌̐͌͛̏h̷̳͖͍͕̃̎a̸̺͚͙̯̱̫̺̗͐͋͒͐̅̅̔̒̅̒ţ̵̪͇̝̠͔͈̔ ̶̲̀̔͛̏̾̄͌̋̉̐͠h̸̰̫̜̺͔̥̬̗̗̹̪̫̲̺̺̓̇̅̑͛̏̚a̶͇̼͇̯͇̭̼̲̖̞͉͙̺͖̅̇̀̈́̍͠p̴̢̧̦̟̓́̃͗͑͊̉̇̉̑̇̔͝p̶̘̝͎͕̰͌̓e̴̠̻͓͍̔̀̉̾̎̽̔̊̿̋͝n̸̬̿͛̈́̐̆͊̚͠͠͠͝e̶̘̜͕͛͛̊͌͛̍̈͘͝d̴̢̡̧̞̹̪̮͍̼̻̼͔͕͎̺̀͌,̶̗͙͔͇̪̉͂̑̾̔͌͊̂̄̂̕ ̷̡̡̫͈̺̰͉̫̞̝̟̻͒̇͛̈́b̴̧̋̕u̸̢͕͕͓͍̫͉̞͌́̒t̵̡̲̩͉̤͉̦̙̫͈̫̖̟̔͐̋͘ ̴̣̰̰͇͚̻̘͚̉̐̃̉̈́̏̄͊̍̾̀̈͝͝Į̶̨̟͎̩̰̤̋͛͐̒͌̋̆̈̊̓̒ ̴̨͓̫̗̭͓͓̙̔̀͌͌̃͋͊͂̓̏̓̕ḩ̶̩̜̼̦̟̤̜̮̭̙͌̄̓̄̿͊̕ȃ̵̡̧̜͕͈̊̕v̴͇̼͍̺͔̠̳͋ͅe̷̤̺͎̠͚̦̲̱͖̒͑̈́̃͂̇́̑̚̕͝ ̷͇̫̩̠̼̽͐̓̐̈́͊̕͝ͅt̶̡̝͉̭͇͕̄̑̉̂̏̅o̵͖̓̉̈̑̋̔̒̊͒̚ ̴̖̫̎̂ả̷͕̾̒̊͛͐̽̈́̎͘͘s̶̡̢͓̗̹͓̠̦͍̠̙̾̈̽ͅk̸̦̲̳̲̲̇̔̈́̽͐͛̽̈͜,̶̛͎̱̜̲̲̙͗̈́̿̉̿͋͂̊͝ͅ”̸̙̰̬͖͚̟͔́̋ ̴̮͙̌I̵̧̧̦̰͍̺̹͈̝̲͇̠̗̳̾̈́̽̾͑̈̒̍̂̈́̊̚͝ ̶̪͎͉̦́͌̿͋̓̿̇̋͘͝c̶̨̨̥̺͕͎͇̰͍̺̦͙̱̆̅̿̏͒̓͗͋̊̍͋̚͜͠ã̶̤n̵̡̍̋̈́̏͒̈́̎̈̈́̓͊ṉ̵̭͉͎̫̠̎̓͑͂̃̆͑͛̔͂̃̕ơ̷̢̮̦̜̦͒ṱ̸̞̣̅͛̒̆̐͛͘̚͝ ̷̞̳̃͆͋͐̃͝͝b̶̧͉͍̥̠̼͖̺̭͈̥̅̎̔̚e̶̡͓̳͍̰̟̳̘̎͐̐̓l̶͔̝͔̾̔̎̋͒̑̈́͗̓̽̓̿̾ï̷̡̖̘̣͇̥̩̓͊͒̇̒̍͐̽̾̋͐̚̕ë̶̡̛̦̖̫̟̳̮̩͍̲̝̥̼́̌͐̌̉͂͘̚̚͠v̷̧̛̛̘̭̜̰̗̠͚̼͙̝̙̽͆̈́͂͋̚͘͠͠ͅe̷͉͉͕̰̯͓̰̥̬̖̫͖̹͌͆̉̀ ̶̛͕̠͎t̸̨̠̟̤̮̦̭̆͐̈̔̿͌̅͌̐h̷̨̨̭̲̯̲͖͇͓͚̙̫̫͌̾̍͌̉͑̍̆̚a̷͔̟̝̗͙̔͗̔̓͛̽̂͌t̷͍̳̞̱͗̏͗̅̒ ̴̢̱̓̎̐̇̄̄̓̂̚̕͝ͅM̶̞̟̈́̋̿̓͒̉̒͌̓̍̌́͠͠ͅŗ̵̛̜͔̦͖̲̠͖̜͌͑͂͊̃͗̚̚s̴̢̝̹̺͇̍̄̂̉͑̂͌͑̓̃̚͜͜͝.̶͕̣͓͖͙̥̊͒̚ ̶̢̘̻̦̜̬̰̫̙̹̣͓̅͛̔͘H̶̨̡̡̢̩͉͖̰̜̦͉͍́͆́̓̔͐̉͛͋̌̏́͝ͅͅö̸̧̉͒̍̎͗̒̒̎̉̉͝͝i̸̺̞̩̻̰̯̻̜̺̪̣̎̑͛͛̿͗͐̇͝d̸͔̼͔̱̱͖̫͓͋̓͆̃͘ͅā̵̡̺̪̉ ̴̧̺̤̤̤͔͈̇͛͛̓̏̿̊͌͆̈͊̽̑̕͠h̷̨̟͕̯̘̼͇͈͕͙̝̞̔̈́̏͜ą̷̢̛̲̟̖̫̖͚̟͇͔̜̱͒͆̈̃̎̃͑͘ṩ̸͇̒́̈́̑̒̓ ̸̰̮̹͚̙̬̍͂͑̈́̐̀̂̄̏͠͠t̷̺̝̯͊̉̐̀̉͗́̋̍͛͛͝r̷̢̢̬̠̤̗̘̪̋͛̅̽̓̚̕͜ͅa̸̹̼̥̓̓̅͋n̴̢͈̰̬̪̈͛̈́̃̚ͅs̷̨̗̝̱̓l̷͉̙̳̠̻͚̞̫̤͒͐́̂̇͘͜͝ą̵̖̳̤͚̥̰͍̥͙̥̠̻̙̆͑̃͛͐͝t̴̛̤̣̃̓̈́̒̎͊͑̓̐̊̽̃͠ě̸̤̘̱̟̾̆̋̈́͑͗͆d̴̢̧̛̝̹̫͉̼̰̝͖̲̍͗͑́̈̃̒̈́̋͊͜͝ ̴̧̧͙͍̏͗̀̃͗͠s̴̤̮̜͙͉̾̈́̄͆͒̑̇ǔ̷̡̩̙͈̤͎͙̰̼̀͆͋̇̅̏͐̅̀͠ç̶̛͉̞̻͉̝̠͖̲̫͔ͅh̵̛̛͚̹̫̟̆̃ ̷̺͖̬̜̲̑̓͌͒͗͋͘ă̷̻̣̲̝̱̓͐̀ ̴̘̺̮̲̖͔̓̋̏͛̍͂͆̓̔̏̇̏͂d̸̢̛̯͍̜̜͍̗̜̈́͛̄̇̅͒̉͊̃̂͝͝à̶̢̨̖̮̝̱̻̇̉͑̔r̷̪̠͈̱̰͔̖͔̜̱̍͒͂͂͊̈́͌̀́̾̕k̷̜̩͖͌̋̓̊̈̎̕̕͜͝ ̵̨̥̯͗̄̓͛̏̋̋̈̄́͒̇ͅt̶̡̙̺̬̱̤͖̳͓͙̘͍̤͆̾ḧ̶͉̲͈̬́́͆̏̋̇̚͜ȅ̸͓̆̉̄̇̏̐͛̈́̊͘͝͝͝m̸̨̡̨̻̜̹̣͉̗͔͇͋͂͒͂̄͑̋̂̔͌̓̕̚e̴̢͎͔̭͗̓͋͠ḑ̴̛̦̮̭̜̱͔͚̹͐̋͐̈̈́̎̌͒̈́͗̔ ̸̢̛̒̊͊̔͊̂̾̕͘š̸̡͘h̷̢̰̭͖̝̼̓̌̓̒̉͝o̷̡̨̠͖̳̺̥̭̫̗̻̞͆͆͂̉͑̈́̋͗r̶͉͕̤͍̖͙̀̅ͅt̷̨̯̠̱̼̦͓͙̗̦̠̯̘͂̃̆̇̇̎̍̇ ̶̨̧̰̙̠̟̘̗͍̙̠̯͉̯̜͆̽͑͆͝ş̷͕̤̱̮̙̦̠̭̫̙͉̩̻̫̆̌͐̈́̾̓͐͗̾̊̆ẗ̴̬̻͇͚͎͓̈́͑̆̍̃̃̾̃͌͋͜͝ͅõ̵̡̘̰̞̠̠̰r̸͕̫̟͙̝̹͔̰̹̥̜̰̔ͅÿ̸̡̢̹̥͖̬̟̻̦̘́̐̋̕̚͜ ̸̧̨̛͉̬̭̖̞̟̰̬̳͙̗͇͈̊̑͛̇̓̔̈́̀̓͘͘͝f̴̰̘̍͛̍̈́̎͋͋͐̂̊͑̕̚̕ǫ̷̡̢̯̼̯̻̮̦̜̔̄͐̾͑̈̿̌͂̑͝͠ṟ̶̃͐͑̐̐͆̄̀͐̒̓̈̕ ̸̡̹̯͚̖̜͓̬̟̤͐͒̉̂̎̾͠͝͝ͅẖ̴̛̗͎̻̮̭̳́̃̓͊͛̑͑í̷̲͉̰̩̲̮̯̳̣̽͜͜m̷̡̦͍̣͖̬̯̫̗̹̪̬͐͑͋̈́̀̑̓̀̌͗̄̈́͝͝.̸͔̦̬̝̳͓̘̱̬͑̇̈́̄̇̌͛̐̂̿̇͜͜ ̶̡̧̢̨̫͖̥̗͔̰̪̰̱̕ͅǍ̷̟͍̩͈͚̭̃͛̈̄͂̏̓̔͗̀͛l̷̗̞̘̜̤̻͉͍̲̆̒͜ͅl̴̠̱̘̦̬͙̳̅͗͑̃̉̄̃͌͜ ̸̧̧̪̰̺̹͚̣̺̫͇̭̈́Ỉ̴̢̢̜̤̯̺̻̜̠̟͔̣̖͗̒̋̀̇̒͛̚ ̸̧̘̹̱̤͖̲̜̭͓̯̽̃̂̚͜k̴̖͎̤̲̳͚̱̤̠͛̂̒͆̿̓͊̐̽̅̄̔͘͝n̸̩͓͚̈́́̎̎̈́̕̚ö̴̧̠͚͈̮̟̥̗͇̝͚̮̝̞͉͗͐̔̉ẅ̷̡̧̢̫̙̗͚͔̮͓̹͍́̓̆̇̕ͅͅ ̵͇̼̰͚̾̎͆̀͌͛̈͂͝i̷̧̢̹̘͇̞̥̫̲͖͑̄͗̐͝͠s̴̡͖̖͍̬͇̠̠̘͍̯̻̎̍͒̈́͜ ̶̢̗̦̺̰̝̬̯̹̰̫̘̺̄̀̏͑̈́̄̄ͅţ̸̨͓̖̞͎̭͚̬͔̲̖̫̙̞̋̽͂̊͒̊̂̅̚̚͠h̴̩͚͉̓͂̄͊͗͊͌̀̓̉̄̕ͅa̷͕͓̟̥̮̪̜̫̻͚̦̰͌͑̏͒́̌̓̔̽́̚͘t̸̥̳̩̲̤̝̫͙͌ ̶̳̩̾̓s̴̞̰̤̭͍̳̜͈͙̯̣̝̘̆͂̈́̿̒̂̌̑̕h̴͍͋͂̆̂͆̈́̒͑͘͘ͅë̸̛͉́͌ ̶̧̡͈̗͎͙̦̙̊̀s̷͙̹͈͚͙̭̟̟̉̅̊͒̈́͊͋̒͆̽͂̇̈̎͜͝u̴̼̣̹͖̣̱̫̫̳̬͈̥̖̱̔̉̓̌̐̌̾f̶̥̱̞̯̺͖̰̖̠̖̤̌͆́̌̏̐̽͜͝ͅf̷̬̦͚̰͖͇͎̻̱͖̦̟̳̻̩̎e̶̡̮̯̥̺̪͙̭͚͛̆̾̂̃̌͐̅̄̔͘r̶̳̖͓̟̺͔̘͉̼͈̐͂́̋̋͒̈́͂̎̆́́̑̚͘ͅë̶̢̡̛̫͉̭̲̲͓̜̬̲́̄̄̉̕ͅd̸̥̱͎̙̣̆̾͝͠ ̶͇̪͓̞̬̠͍͇͗̓̑̉̆͌̇͛̇̕͝f̴̰̫̼̱͇̦͆͑̿̈́̃͊̔̈͝r̶̡̼̊͐̽͌͆̿̈̂͛͋͝ǫ̷̗̤̳̂͆̈́́̎̚͝m̶̡̀̇ ̶̨̰̹̩͕̘̺̭͚͛͋̽̋̕p̵̨̥͙̘̭̜̭̥̬͛̉̅̉̽̅̕͘̚͜͝͝a̷͓̳͇͍͉̙͕̗͔̥̙̅́͛̓̀̇i̵̢̛̥̭̳̠͈͖͉̘͔͙̹̹̋̀̊̊͐̊n̸̛͖̰̜͈̺̯̙͗̒̈́̿́͑̀͘ͅ.̵̢̢̲͖̼͔̗̗͙̬̠͍͙̆̎̅̓͛̌̍̕̚͜ͅ

̴̛͚͇̺͖̘̏̾̎͑̉̇̈͘̚͜“̶̡͙͇̲͎̺̙͕̂̋́̀̏͠Ĭ̸͎͍͔̬̠̾̓ ̶̢̞̭̰̗̥̻̾͐͂ç̴̛̝̟̩̤̝̯͔̦͖̠̈́̄̔̒͊̈́̑́̂͛͊̾͜a̶͎̩̝̞͕̎̔̎̈̌̊͊́̋̄̎͘ņ̵̖̺͎̣̗̭̤͓͎͇̏̏ͅ’̴̡͍͙͍̬̰̰̤̘̦̦͙͇̤̌́̌̕ẗ̴͙͍́̈́̋͗̓̃̚ ̶̡̛̦͇̪̫͚͔̼̭̻̋̎̽̆͆̃͘͝r̸͎̿͛ė̵̡͕̪̹̮̫͖̳͖̟̮͕̘̝̃͌̈́̐̂̇͌̈́͝a̵̡̲͕̳̭͑̿̔̋͊̈́͌̚̚͝ḍ̶̛̟̹̋̂̉͆̆͑̆̓̓̏̌͠ ̷̭̲͕̬̰͚͇̙̘͇͍̪̜̃̊͝f̷͎͍̖͉̼͈̼͌͜ũ̷̫̐̈́̈́̿̂͑̈͌̕̕̕r̷͇̝͐͊͌̄͑͗̈́̏̏̍͆͝ẗ̷̢̘̭͇̭̺̙̰́͂̉̂̍̆̄̒̌̉̈̀̽̓ḧ̶̨͎̥̟͎͇̭̹͎̻͖̀̑̽̉̓͆̀̈́̈́̓͝e̴̡̝̙͇̝̭͎̲͇̮̐̃̓̀̓͐̾͛r̸̦͙̔̌̎̿̍̏̐͝,̶̞̘̘̱̤͔͚͚̘̭̭̘̏͆͒͐̎̾̌́̈̚”̴̞̝̣͔̪̙̜̭̟̰̩̰͎͒̎̌̄͗̔̽͆̿̒̑̈́͜͝ ̸̩̱̥͖̘̔͗͗Ę̸̥̥̲͓̝͠r̸̛͚̩̺̹̘͕̈͋̄̍͒̍̓̐̀i̴̡̻̠͙͔̲̭̗͕̘͊̋̿͌̍̔͊͐c̵̨̹̟̰̫̰̞̮̖͚̱̪̟̦̲͛̓͛̍̇͗̆͑͋̌̅͘͠ ̵̦̐̊́̋̃̌͛̈́̉͝͠ḟ̴̤̭̯̻͕̯͋o̴̧̫̜̺̯̹̝̟̩̘̱͎͆͐̓̊l̶̢̼̜̯̤͓͕̪̬̙͔̗̤͊͆ḋ̴̨̨̪̺̗̝̪̝͖̦̰̪̩̈̓͑̕͘s̷̪͛̒̓̈́̏̉̈́͌̔͘̕̕͘̚͝ ̵̗̗͎̰̰̙̠̯̖͂͗̾̓͠ẗ̸̢̺̣̗̬̠̟̽̃̎̋͗̂̽̎͛̈́͛͠h̶̡͍̱̤͍̚͝ȩ̴̛̥͎̰̗̤̖̅͑̌̾͒͑̋ ̶̟͇̬̗̥͓̦̙͍͙̜̰͓̠̽̅̍̓͛͑̒̕s̷̘͓̘͔̬̓͐͊̚̕h̵͎͖̔̓̎̇̄̋̿̆̌̿̋͘͘̕o̴̠͇̮̖͚̮̖͓̿̓̃̏̈̈́̇͌̈́̒͆̀̕͠r̴̲̫͙͚̱̩͈̭̺̙̞͚̱̳̾̒͌̉̀͒̄͋͆̾̕ṯ̸͖̖͕̭̗̱̗̠͊́͗̇̃̿̊̏̊͘̚ ̸͈̝̭̄̇̈́̈́̾̒̐̒͐̃̚͘͠s̸̥̪̩̘̮͓̫̣̠̪̪͔̝͐͂̓̆͝t̶̩͖̲̟̱̥̩̱̍̌̌̽͌̉̏̇̂̈́̇͋̎͜͠ͅơ̸͕̯͔͉͙̙̲̖̼̗̦̱̘̖̈́̋͋̈́́̐̏̑͛̓͋̕͘ṛ̷̛̜̹̻̪͚͓̟̬̯͋̇̈́͛̃̓͒͘͠͠y̶̡̨͚̳̞͉̺̟̺̰̙̓ ̸̡̧̜̼̥͈͕̞̾̀̓̒̃̂̈̽̋̎̕͝o̷̢̪̺͚͙̪͔̬̳͎̗͖̗͆f̸̨̳̳̬̣̱̻̪͉̖͙̕ ̴̧̱̳̖͓̳͔̩̩̟̮͙̺͉̂̃̑̂̈̓̌̌ḫ̵̡͖̻͌̊̓̽̈̈́̈͆̕̚̕͝i̷̡͈͎̭̜͚̣̤͂̈́͂͊̊͛̊̿͜ͅͅs̵̙͖̈̏͒͘ ̸̨̢̗͇̮̟̘̹̼̗̘̙͙͚̼̇͆̐̇̓̌̄͝͝å̵͈͔̯͖̪n̵̡̡͔̬̻͙̩̰͕͔̓̿͑̿̏d̶̨̛͚̮̠̝̟͖͉͍̘̔͊͐̃̏̈̄̽̂̌̒͠͝ ̸͓̰̠͌́̿͛̿͋̒̈́͊͑̋̌̓͘͝t̷̝͉̱̥̬̥̣̭͚͇̗̭̩͇͔̓̃͛̽̿͛̏̆̿̄̚͝u̵͉̅͂͛͒͆̑̍̂͝͝ĉ̷̘̻͚̩͓̳̮̪͈͖̘͈̎̒͋̓̂͜ͅk̷͖͑̌̂̔͋͋͘͝ş̵̨̢̹̝̺̫͎̩̰̣̙͇̦͙̈̒̓̂̀͝ ̴̻̺̱͕͙͕̳̘͕̟̮͉̩̟̘̇̿̑̅̏̔̓̽̊͒̈́͝ṫ̷͉̼̈̋̑͗̏͂͑͑̑͂͘̚͝h̸̡̦̱͙̻̗̰̤̞̖͇̳̑̀̈͌̓̊̾͒͑͑́̈͠e̴̬̙̪͈̮̗̼̗̰̣̫̾̔̓̊͐̐͆͘͜͜͜m̸̛̞͔̩̤͂̽̃̈̈̆̆̓̃̾͗͝ ̵̧̨͓̝͙͚͉̜͉͓̞̼̈̒̑͑͂͌̏̓̒͂͗̅̓͝͝ͅi̴͙̺̗͓̫̻̼̹͎̫͐̆͆͑͗̐̄̃͘͠n̶̡̹̣̊̈́̐̄͌̈́̈͒̈̈́̚̚͘̕ț̴̢̡̛͓̫̭̙͙̗̩̬̍̓͆͆̅̅̊̿̆̚͠ō̴̧̠̩͚̥͖̗̰̔̈ ̶̨̡̧͙͚̖͉̞̗̪͈̬͖̑͐ͅå̶̫̜̟̯̞̣̳̮̬̲̓̊̑̈́̂̓ ̴͔̟͐́̏͝͝b̵̡̡̛͇̪̘̞͓̤̜̲̭̱̽̇̍̑͆̎ͅa̷̧͎̖̞̹̲͋̒̉̂̃͐͐̐̀̈́͐͠ĝ̶̢̳̩̤͔̘̩̭̪̩͚͙̝̚͘.̸͓̩̟̫̆́̽͝ͅ ̶̨̘͈̺̩̝̲̝̤̳̞͛̔͠“̵̫̦̬̰̝̥̻͎̼̖̯̬͈̞͕́͛͒̃W̵̨̡̛̟͕̥̰͔͇̠̥̟̪̳̟͔̋͒̿̉̔͊̈́̌́͝͝h̶̢͉̠͉̬̯͙̤̪͚̪̗͓̺͛͌̅͑̓̽͐̔͊͊̽̋͊̇͜a̷͓̐̾̒̂̔͠͝t̵̨͖̙̪̹̪̪̺̫͗̍͊͊ ̵̢̧̧̠̙̣̹͔̙̘̰̹̼̝͊͛̍̉̑̈́͒̑ȟ̵̨̨͍̪̟̳̫̞̹̙̈́͂͠ą̵̘̫̻͓͇̹̪̤̭̼͎p̷̡̳̼͉̺͖̟̖̹͇̉̓͛̈́͝p̴̨͓̟͇̈̾͒͛͋̆̍͊͒͘̕e̷̱̜͌̆͝n̸̛̛̗͆̋̂͑͗̌͒̒̾͆͆e̵̛̲̯̪̭͇͔͎͐̇̓͑̑̅͂͜d̷͚́̏̏̒̏͒̆̆͐̚ ̸̯̠̲̦͙̺̤̊̿̒̈͋̿̀͛͐͑̚t̵̰͆̔͌͘ơ̵͉̱̝̙̥͕̥̬̦̞̣͐́͐̍̏͒͗̅̽̑̅͜ͅ ̴̛͙̿̋̑͑͆̚͝o̴̢̰͓̳̬̹̳̱̗̅̎̑͆̄̄̄̆͝u̸̡̢͕͚̐̐̎͘͝r̶͚̮̱̥̭̪͕͓͈̼̘̯̒̿͗̓̄̈́͛̈́̒̈́̚͝ͅ ̵͚̠̰͚̻͉̙̳̥̞̯̱̭̮́̄͋̔̌ͅS̸̢̡̛͇̺͓̥͈͔͂̈́͋a̵̧̞̩̣͆͌̅̍̈́̈́̌̆̃͆͘͝͠͠i̸̛̞̱̼̰͎̜̠̱̺͗͒̔̎̾̓̎̅͗̚̚͠͝ǹ̶͖͓̝̘t̶̨̬͈͕͚̯͕̗͎̜͖̞̐͒̇̌̚̚?̶̘̹͇̺͕̓̈́̋͌̅̀͗͘͝͝͝”̵͎̹̺̥̯̻̪̈́̅̆̾͐͑̓̌͜͜͜͠͝ ̴̨̠̠̬̘̣͐̂̈́̌͘-̶̡̛̞͇͕͍̬̞̦͈͇̥̑̇̈́͑̔̚͜ ̷̢̛̑͆͋͛̌̂“̶̛̛̺̃͑̅̈́̀͑̍͋̄͛̾͒͠I̶̢͕̮̙̰̒͗ ̵̢̛̭̱̙̹̲̰͚̞̣̬͍̪̓̏̔̓͐͌͜ţ̷̧̳̘̱̦̹͖̝̝̜͕̀̈́͋ͅh̴͇̮̭̍̊̾̔̇i̶̡̖̝̤̞̪̼͈̫̺̓̃͐̀͠ṉ̵̗̎̓͊͊̒͛̐͋̈͝k̴̥̖̺̤̤͊̌̎̎̌͘,̵̡̼̙̠̬̞̞̣̜̻̿̃͋̇̐͑͝ ̸̪̬̥̳̯̠̼͚̓̐̃̀͑̓̿̈́̒̚͜w̵̡̨̧̛̫̭̫̠̗̜̩͖͎̳̰̏̾̈́̃͗̔͆͠ë̷̡̛̥͖͔̙̳͙̩̣̲́͒̆̿͌̓̏́͌́͗̌͝ ̵̡̞͉̖͙̟̿̂͑̊̿̇͆̾̔̒̿͂̕̚͜͠s̴̢̨̬̺̼̭͖̯̤͎̳͖͓̔̈́̈́̽̕͘͝ḣ̵͍̗̫͗̈̃̎͗̾̔̑̒̅͜͝ͅo̴̧̨̟͔̩̜̱̫͕̞͙͆͊͌͆̃̆̀͋͂̈̋͛̚ṷ̷̙̰͕̏̚l̷̯̤͉̟̮͚̺̫̝̫͐̆́̒̾͊͛̐̕͜͠ḍ̴̡̧̧̺͔̹̼̭̲̌̈̔̓̄͗̊̾̃̆̚͝ ̴̮͕̹̼̟͍͓̳̤̥̱̥͎̥̈́͐̏͋̎̆͐̆̐̇̕͝ḩ̴̰̞̗͚̰̰̭̹̒̈́̎̾͐̔͆̈̌̈́̈́̍̚͠ȩ̷̢̥̜͔̘̹͈̣͋̍̂̾͐͌̓̐͝a̷̳̲͙̝̹͖̠͉͉̟̦̹̽̓͌̒d̴̡̡̞̭̘̮̟͎̙̯̩̟̘͎̦͆̋ ̶̛̛͇̱̫̆̅̇ǫ̴̛̥͍̗̮̻̩͍̜̿̐̎̑̍̑̄̾͒̀͠ȗ̴̫̦͍̌̈̈́͗̈́̽̒̕̕t̸̯̞̖͚̳͊́̂ş̵̛̠̥͒͋̑̍͛ḯ̷̧͔͓̫͈̦͉̟̫͙͈̓̍̕͘d̵̝̘̣͚̝͖̑͒͂̃̑̍͘͜e̶͔̲̺͔̝̠̗̥͕͓͉̝͗̉͒͋̂̒͌̓̆̌̅̿̅̊͜͜.̷̡͍̝͇̹̭̰̍͗̃̆̚ ̷̧̯̯͇̜͉͖̺̹̼̝̻̌̿͛́͋S̶̡̫̞̼͙̣͈͉̱̼͉̒͒̋̚ͅõ̵̲̣͎̠͍͖̦̱̫̪̬͎͕̃̈́̈́͜͝m̴̮̘̩͖͈̙̈́͌͒͌̀͐̓̄̅̚͝ͅẽ̵͇ ̴̼̘̈́͂͝͝f̵̨̭͈͈͙̙̘̬̭͔̩̗̖͕͐̉̒̉͝ȑ̸̭̝͉̲̗͙̯̼̀͂̋̋̇̈̈́͌͗̃͝e̴̡̜̻͓͓̥͚̟͐́͛̍̽̀́̄̏̀̽̆͜ͅs̵̛̥̠͓̬̗̲͔͔͎̋̍͌͂̚̚͜͝͝ͅḩ̸̬͉̬̰̦̹̙̲̖̒̒͛͝ ̶̢̻̫̲̥̻̾͌ą̷̲̦̼͕͓̭͖̺͍͎̔̋̇͐̊͂̃͘͜͜į̵̺͓͓̻̰͔̱̠̉̾͒̒͗̐͊̍͛̐͐͘͝ͅͅr̷̨̟̫̖̞̃̐̃̌̽̇̈ͅ,̴̧̼̻̪͎̱͓̉̐̔͑̐̾̉̒̇̎͌”̷̹͇͔̠̜͇͒͠ ̷̢̲̓̓̔͐̃͘̚̚͜ͅh̷̥̭̳͐ę̵̛̺̟̱̳̹͙̙̱̹̯͉̈̄̈́̉͂̀̚͝ ̶͉͈̦̣͙̱͍̩̰͎̖͈̝̳̟͊͛ă̷̛͕̹͚͉̻͇̘̑͋̊̔͆͂̇͜͜͝v̵̯̺̽̚o̴̮̲̱̞̔͛͆̚͝i̸̢̺̮͓̜̼͓̣̔̃̍͗͜d̸̡̺̫͖̗̤̘̬͕̼͕̈́͆̎͛͋͑͑̈́̋̃̚̚͝ͅs̷̠͐̐͆͊̆͛͗̕͘ ̶͔̩̩̄̂͒̾͝t̴̡͇̹͇̤̻̲̼̘̠̾͜h̶̢̗͖̦̙̯͔̮͚̱̋͛̅͛̇̆́̋̄̕͘ȩ̵̨̛̲̙͔͙͕̀̒͆́̈́̊̾̏̍̇̍͆͛͝ͅ ̵̛͎̜͙̰̼̰̞͋̿̾̋̃q̴̨̭̐͋̈́̍̅̆̏̚u̶̢̘̫͎̻͚͖̪͈͇͓͛͒̄̐̾̈́̈̚͝ȩ̴̢͈͖͍̭̪͎͇͍͎̗̎̂s̵͕̝͉̠͖͙͈͓̟͇̪̉̿̃̑̉̓̿͜t̵̢̧̺͇̰̲͙͙̤̭͙̝͎̓̽̌̾͗̕̕i̶̠͙̮̫͚̜͓̦̙̹̣̦͛͑̿̑͋̎ͅo̷̥͙̼̞̖̺͖̥̻͕̫̘̼̔̇̿̈́̎̔̅̒̄̚̚̕n̴͕̿̈̉̿̀̊̓̈́̽͗͝͠.̸͚͉̫͈̗̭̩̜̲̜͔̣̯̏̿̅̕ ̴̼̘͕̺͌̿̌̂̐̾ͅI̷̩̒̊͝ ̸̞̗͇͋̉͑̏͒m̷͇̠̟̜̲̹̉͝ę̵̨̙̠̗̰͇̻̘̮̦̰͎̝͑̾̐͐͊̉r̷̛̯͕̙̮̥̺̳͕̜̜̤̝̣͌̎̇̀̅͋̿͘̚e̵͎̰̻̎͜ľ̴̡̩̦̺͓͇̪̠͔͎̐͌͐ͅy̷̧͓̳̠̤̦͈̰͔̺͂̎̈̔̾̑̓̒̔̋̐͐̂ ̸̧͉̪̹̘̖̈́́̌̚ŵ̴͕̠͕̙̠̝̝̣̟̈́ͅi̶͈̗̣̭̖͈̰̱̿̽͗̓̓̅͌̃̅̕s̵̛̘͕͎̻̲̹̈̉͂̀͆̋̽̎̆̋̾̽̿̚h̶͇̫̯̞̭̘̀͆͐̈́̐̎̈́͐̃̈́̿̽͝͝ͅ ̵͙͙̰͇͐̽͒̔̍̀́̀̿͜͝ẗ̸̛͖̥͚̖͕̅̉̚h̸̯̽̊̏̓͗͊̐͠ą̸̨̮̖̱͓͉̙̮̜̹̤̲̅̌̎͗͂͌̔͂̒̕̚͠ͅt̶͈̣̩̣̫̮͊̊̑̎͛̈́͗̄͒͝ ̷̛̜̙̫̻̱͕͖̥͂͐͛̒́̑̆͜ͅͅŝ̷̡̮̟̞̱̤͚̳͕̮͖̯̑͆̐̈́̍͋͘͝ḩ̴̰̣͖͈̣̋͛̋̚͘e̴̗̼͖̖͓̬̻͔̼̭̗̣̞̮̊͗̓͌̚ ̶̢̢̧̩̺̗̞̯͓̪̺̭̣̯̍̈́̐̿̓̎͜ḧ̷̲͈̥̝̠́̔̀̾̄̍̃̿̎̿̎̂͊ą̵̢̘̼͓̳̯̹̲̲̟̱̞͇̉̏̕̚͜d̸͍̘͉̳̪̻̆̈́͜ņ̶̝͇̫̜̯͖̫̗̃̈́͌̈́̌͗̐̚͜’̸̢̙̻̺̭̳̜̣͊͜ͅt̴̝̞͓͙͙̃͊͆͗͐͌͌̉͘͝͠ͅ ̴̡̠̳͂͂̆͋̎̓͂̔͂̕͝ͅb̷̡̡̭̙̩͓͈̭̪̩̦̳̫͕̦͐̉̂̀̏̐̊͊͛́̃͌̅ẻ̸̠̞͌͛̇̀̂͛͐̇͌̚̕ę̴̨͎̩̻̠̥̟̞́n̸̫̩͍̈́͛͋̃́̓͐̋ ̷̢̢̡͚͇͖̫͎̰̲̱̦̟̜̥̒̔͌͘͝s̵̱̩̪̻̮͕̜̳̝̪͔̲̊̊̄̇̈͒͝t̶̬̱̞͙͙̍̂͑į̸̥̦͂͒̌͝t̶̨͇̙̝̰̼̪̥̠̍̋̅́̎̈́̓͘ͅc̴̡̱͔͈̪̩͘̚ḩ̷̧̧͓̟̱̱̥̖̮̭̐̀̽͘͠e̵̯̼̦͂d̴͔̪̥̫͉͇͇̣̒̑̿̑͠ ̸̳̭̋t̸͚̯̱͍̟̞͓̭̩̆ơ̸͖̫̤̦̼̞̞̻̬͓͇͍̋̉̍̈́͑͋̂̔̅̉̕͜ͅ ̷̢̡̙͓̪̟͕̼͍̬̜̹̲̓͐̐̊̐̔̉̽̅̈́̽̈́d̸̳̂̀̇̑̆̉ȩ̸̙͚͖̭͎̰̳̩̖͗͐̈͛̂̊̇̈̍̊̕a̵̩̻̓̈̒̿͑́̂̚͝͝t̶͈̝̫͛̒̅̉̔̃h̷̨̛͔͙͎̪̞͓̗̞̱̜̺̎̇̅͒͛̔͋͋͜͠ ̴̖͓̪̙͎̯̑̿͐͊͂͐ͅẅ̶̧̠͓͇̦̼͔͖͓́͂̾̍͑̅̔̀̈̍͗͝i̸͖̞͔͛̿̾͌̋̈́̃̈͊͗̕ţ̸̱̠͔͇͍̠͙̟̲̞͑͘ͅh̶̪͛̎ ̶̨̡̢̛͔̦͔̤͉̗̪̖͐̀̅̃̿͐͘̚͠ẇ̷̯̟̦̅̓ā̵̳̜̲̳̝͔̟̘̒̍͆͂̊͘͝ͅy̶̨͓̭̠̥̪̠̣̯̻͉͕̐͂ ̷̛̳͑̇͂̊̾͑͘̕t̸̢̰͓͕͙̠̗̼̝̲͋̔̋ͅo̴̧͍̯̖̜̥̟̭͙̹͖̿̐̈̒̋͗͛̽ŏ̵̢̼̥̤͓̫͂ͅ ̷̛͙̥͉̩͛̐͑̇̚͝͝͝m̴̛͕̼̫̎̆̈̑̔̍͊̍̃̿a̷̛͉͎̼̘̦̪̹̟̤̋̎͆̎̾̽̂͐̽͘͘͜͝͝n̴̫̜̣̳̱͍̎̍͗̿̐̿͗͂̋̑̏̕y̵͔̙͉̰͎̦̒͗̾̂͂͗́̉̇̃̓̅̎̑ͅͅ ̸͎̰͕͗̿̉̑́͛̆͜͜s̸̢̛͇̺̪̘̭̼̯̞̘̺͊̏̾͆͜ǘ̵̧̩̰̮͔͈̹̘̼̻̻̲͙̲ṛ̷̨̡̱̱̟̏͛̌̔̈́̄́̇̊̌̆͐͋͘͝v̶͚͙̠͖̺͚̫͛͂͌́̅̾͒́͘͠ì̶̛̼͍͔̠͂͊̽͒̄̂͗̄͗̓͐̚v̸̫͎͚͇͓͉͎͕̟͔̔e̶̟͍̥̱͉͓͙͋̾̇̅̓̌̔̚͘̚ͅd̸̦͆ ̸̛͉̫͛ç̷̢̬͚̻̖͚̥̟̗̤̠͇̥͝ů̷͓̹̟͓̜͇̻͔̾͑̕͜͝ͅẗ̵͕̭̠̼͉̯́s̸̝̟̭͑͆̑̅̈́͐̄̕.̵̛̟̣̮͎͙̥̬̒̆̈́̅̄̃̕̚ ̴̛͖͙̭̑͒̅͒͊͝S̶̨̬͍͔̥͇̣͚͐͘ö̵̯̗̺̤͔̤̲́̂̒̍̽̓̈́͗̈́̋̕̚m̴̬̖̃͗̿̂̽́͐̈́͘̚͘ḙ̷̪̤͉̻͈̪̥́͊͊̌̄̄̂̓͗̎̐̈́͠͠͠ ̷͓̝̙̞̣͎̖͓̪͎̖̫͖͇̲̒͒̌̆͒̍͑̀̒̃̏̌̕̕k̴̦̝̟̻̜̹͉̋̏̊͌͝ͅi̴̤͚̲̙̒̍͜n̷̛̯͔͍̊̈́͂̏͊͘d̸̘͙̎̇̎͠ ̶̧̛̯̰̺̪̞͖͈̖̩̤̩͓̲͐̊̿͌̒̊̓̓̆͛͌̕̚͜ô̸̠͇͛̒̈́͘f̸̡̡̦̱̻͉̺̪̟͍͈̤̬͒̃̎̾̕͘͜͝ ̵͍̄̊̋o̷͖̤̖̗̖̣͇̬̜̓̄̔̌̊̑̾͝ͅb̵̳̟̞̗͐̄͒̍̎͐̃j̵̡͎̮̜̪́̈̎̓̽̊̀̽̐͆̑͂͝e̵̫͈̠̓͐͊͊͌̂͗͛̎͌c̷̺̰͒̂̂̓̓͛̐̃̏̕͜͝t̸̫̄̌̓̄̋̏̈͊͝͝͝͝ ̸̛̛̬̠̙̹̺̯͋̈͒̅͋̑͌͒͝w̸̡̨̨͕͇͉̥̰̼͉̤̫̠͋̽̈̈́̓̀̒͜͝ĩ̴̗͕̻͂t̴̢̰͕̠̱̩͓̟̯̰͙̫̯̓͊ḩ̶̩̦̝͈͖̥͇͍̂͛̏̑̑̈̏͑̏͜͝ ̵̻̭͊̔͐̋̑̆͘w̶̰̙̥̟̹̻͓͍͒̈́̑̃͑̌̍͌͠͝ȟ̴̠̰̩͚̾̇̄̌̄͆̈̍̿e̶̘͈͙̿e̷̦̱͖̊̐̾͌̊̏̉̓̇̒͝͝ḷ̶̢̧̛̙͎͚͚̤̺̬͓̲͓̰͛̏s̵͚̪̘͙͎͖̒̍̂͆̏̋̊̉̑̉͆͊̄ͅ ̵̖̻̘̭̜͔̬͔̺̞̭̙͈̺̙̑͌̈̆̈́̑͌͋̎̿̌r̸̛̭̔̉͆͐͆̕̚̕͝o̸̖̱̼̎̉̄͆̽͒̚l̸̪͈͙͉͓̱̮̬̠̈͗l̶̛̲͖͚̻̏̌͐͗̓͒̌̔̿̔͗̕̕s̶̮̰̰̙͛͐̓͋̇̒̃̾̈͐̚̕ ̸̡͍͈̭̙͈̺̖̦͕̘͈̺̈́̿͜ḯ̵̗̤͜͝n̸̺̗̭̗̗͍͌̆̔̉̽̐̚͘t̴̮͕̖̱̣̗͛̀͜ō̷̖̙̜͙͚͕̖̻͕̊̉̓̆́̿͗̃̌͗͠ͅ ̴̡͊͝m̸̧͎͔̪̤̻͔̖̰̝̿̀͂̉̆̐͜͝y̷̢̥̌͝ ̷̝̺̯͍̮̠̰͚̌̓̃͑̃̽̕̕͘͝͝ś̷̩̫̦̙͍͗̐̇̈́͒̃̽̚̕͝i̶̓̈́̈̽͜c̵̡̨̢̛̘̬̮̫͉̯̰̟͗̿̃̾̉̽̆͋̃͗̚͠͝k̸͎͐̒͋̕ ̵̨̯̣̂̃̄̐̇͑̒̂̚͝r̸̡̳̲̖̮̝̘͕̈̇̌͠ȯ̴̘̗͕̣̩̗̦̜̠̝̼̼͜o̶̟̮̺̓m̴̡͙̥̝̣̆͌̎.̴̧͖̩̘͇͈̫̩̹̺̯̟̣̉̐̓̅̓͛͌̐̕͝͠

̷̛̭̞͊͛́̃̅̒̍͗̈́̕͠͠͠“̴̻̖̫̙̪͉̦̊̇͠T̸͙̃̀̆̍̈͛̓̈̒͛͆͛ḧ̶̖͔͝a̵̛͍͎͕̜̲̓́̐̆̚̕ǹ̸̨̨̤̹̹̦̼̰̅͆̈̋͋̒̍͒̂́͋̊ͅk̷̙̟̪̬̹̪̫͈̞̺͕͙͎̓͋̃̈́̎͜s̶̪̭͓̺͇̬̝̳̤͆̉̚,̸̛̠̮̺̤̠̫̗̹̦̊͛̌̆̃͑͘̕”̵̨̨̨̫̠͍̰̲̖̺̺͒̒̏͗͌̈́̽̉̐͌̓̒̈͛͐ͅͅ ̴̦̯̺̗̐̃t̴̳̦̫̅̀̈́͘ḧ̵͕̫̜̤̰̙͖͜ͅe̶̢̫̫̘͍̻̲̙͕̙͈̻̖͇̫͐̔͊̂̈́͑̌̊̾̿̓́͘͝ ̸̳̩͇̺̳͈̠̏͒̓͂̿̌̌͐͌͜͠͝ͅĢ̷̧̼̦̣͔̣͕͉̼̠́͑̌̚̚͜͝ẻ̵̥̖̭͍̰͍̼̣̭̥̪̆̃̽͂̽͒̕̚͘r̴̨̖̘͚͈̪̭̙̬͖̹̰͕̼͎̈́̃̍̉̋̏͒̏͘̕͠͠͠m̵̡͎̥̭͍̣͕̲͎͔̤̼̗̒͒̉̍̐̊̆͂͐̕͠ȁ̴͇̺̀̅̂̎̓̌̃͛̈̐̔̐̆͝n̸̢̛͎̥̦̻͙̻̦̜͚̲̻͚̮̊̄̌̎͛̿͒͊͋̓̕͜ ̴̖̬̭͙̗̺̫̭̼̞̳̥̺͈̄̌͆̅̔̆̎̈͒̕̚͠ͅs̷̤͌̒͊͛̐͒̔̎́̒͆̕͝a̵̫͉̜͂y̸̢͓̩̪̝̹̯̜̤̠̠̩̟͕̾̾͌̆̀̂̾͝ͅs̷̟͚̼̒̋̋ ̶̧̧̡̙͕̦̞̮̭͔͑̓͌̽̋t̸̛̤̼̩͂̌͊̔́̈́͑̋͝o̸̦͎̞̞̠͗͊̇̀̑͗ ̵͇̫̼͍͉̗͕̗͈̲̱̣̏́̄̈̇͒̍̃̀͌̓̋͠͠ͅs̴̼̾̈̇̍̄̈́̔̆͗o̴̢̢̯̼̮̩͖̮̝͕̙͗̿̄ͅm̵̧̛̙̭̥̝͉̯̘͚̺̱͉͌͌̊̉̉̀̇̕͝e̶̛̩͖̳̻̮̓̓́͂̐̈́́̎̌̑̊́̔̕o̶̧̧̦̝͖͇̤͕̘̬̰͊̑͜ņ̶̡̹̣̪͕͖̥͇̦̪̭̐̈͝ͅe̶̢̧̧͚̗̘̱̞̩̩͐̿̽ͅͅ.̴͇̋̇͒̏͂̅̿̇̽̈͝ ̴̛̛̺̘͈͉͚͙̜̭̣͚̭̃̊̅̊͐̓̒̍̋̃I̵̧̢̨̛̤͚͐̓̍̈́͐ ̶̢̢̨̛̣̲͖̫͕͉͉̂̈́ͅḧ̴̜̖́̎͂̋̂̐̇̅̀͒͒͠͝͠ȩ̷̟̄̆̾͗̅͒͆̚̚͝a̵̢̻͓͈̩͙̦͖͖̯̣̙̮̔̊͆̈́͗͋̾͆͗͆̉̈́̚͝ŗ̶̣̟͖̱̩͎̺̻̂͒͋̈́͐͗̅͑̌̚͠͝ ̸̙̗͍̗͉̣̩͇̟͈͓̜̎̉͆̈́͠t̷̝͔̳̲͇̲̹̘͙̄̓͘͝h̴̡̗̫̥̩̝̗͇͚̙̐͛e̶̥̯͇̺̼̣͈͑̿̈̉̾̿͜ ̶̘̝͓̜̹̮̤̱̟̅̂͜r̸̺̋͆̀̇̅͂̀̑͂͂͗̊̒̏͝a̸͔̩̪̟͎̙̋̃̌̓̋̍͗̑̂̓̈́͝p̵̧̼̞͖̖͍̼̮͈̊̆̆̇̓̄͑̈́̕î̶̡̟̪̣͎͎̬͔͓͓̞͔͖͇̐̄͋̉͋̿̅̉̿͛͘͘͜͠͠s̷̨͖͙͔̮̰̰̙̲̥̱͈̠̮̓̑̈͛͑̾̊͐̒̾̒͘͜͠͠t̵͓̝̼͇͈̰͎͂̂̅̏͗̅͛ͅ’̸̰̜̭̘̼̩̅͌̅̊͑̂̆͜s̵̛̠̮̑̕̕ ̸̢̨͉͎͖̼̰̗̮͇̫̹̇͆̽͝͠b̸̲̱͈̀r̸̭̰͕͇̳̋̀̔̿̎́̃̈́̿̽̈̉͘̕e̵̛̹͊̎̑̇͋̌͗̒͂̿̆̚ả̵̛̩͓̜̞ţ̵̫͖̹̻̎h̴̨͉͇̘̦̺̱̩̝̜̟̗̰͉̄̇̾̔̉̑̾͒̽̽̌̌̊͊.̸̬̼͇̗̩͙͎̫̱͛͌̐ ̵̤̘͙͆͒̊͊̒̍́͗̒̌̍̈́͠H̵̛͚̥̏̂͝e̵̢̙͍̜͂̎̒̓͐̽͐ ̵̡̱͍̤̗͈̙̭͎͎̆̓͌̄͊̿̅̂̉̈́ͅg̴̢̢̰̥̬̱͎̳̩̪̻̼̥̠̩͊͑̓̓̒͛͘r̵͉͚̪̞̠̖̦͕̭̼̩̼̎̈́̐̃̋͐͜a̵̙͉̜̺̻͉͊̍̾̐́͛̿̒̍̕͝b̴̡͚͍̪̻͎̟̮̗͉̝̯̳̠͈̋̐̋̆̂̈́̿͒͐s̴̜͖̤͈̞̖̪̩͓̭̙̽̏̽̉̌͛̚ͅ ̷̬͖̈́̃m̴͈̪̺͚̼̄̇̒͊͆͘ę̶̛̠̲̖̯̜̼̺͈͂͆̽̔̈́́̆̅͠͠ ̷̧̳̳̺̬̖͕̹͌̑͊̂̿͒̓͠͝u̸̬̔̏n̸̢̢̟̘̱̪̠͚̱͚̳͎͈͖̄̉̽̓̀̑͆̊̋̉̕͜ḋ̷̮͕̹͓͉̰̹͓͉̈̒̄̾͗́͊͑͠͝ẻ̶̡̖̲̳̟̩̠̤͍̬̤̔̒̔̇̌͗̃̈́̕ͅr̴̦͇͇̊̿̇̈͛͐͊͑͗̋̌̏̆͝͝ ̸͕̯͈̹̣͕̈́́̏͌͆̓̓͠m̸̨̡̞̹̫̩̱͉̈́͒͝ÿ̶̛̫͇̜̭̦̥̻̪͕͎̜͇̱̻́͛̾͐̏̿͌̾̉̂͘ ̷̻̿̓̆̐a̴̡̧̧͙̞͉̣̻̦̫͔̣̋̾͆̂̇̑̂̽̈́̿̇r̵̡̛͉̬̭͈̬͖̺͍͋̽͆͂̇͒̋́̋̏̆m̵̨̡͚̺̘̞͓̲͙͍̟̘̩̈́͜p̴̢͖̤͎̪͇̻̯̿̉̆͌̏͐̓̋̍͑̿̀ͅį̷̡͈̖̯̫̻̼̠̖̣͎͍̟̍̿̇̾̏͠ͅt̴̞̞̙̽̓͒͒̉̉͌̉̈́̔̋͗s̵̢̢̛͖̟͇̮̟͓̰̮̖̳̖̥͌̈́̐̚̕,̷̧̳̪̮̳̠͛̆͛͆͒̅ͅ ̷̄̔̓ͅ“̴̡̗̦̰̦̹͓͙͕̩̱̀̍͐͊Ṱ̷͓̖̬̫̼̹̲̗̪̺͉̍̅̑͋̀͐̈̇͠e̸̢̬̘̤̹̩̹̟̱̣̞̘̱̼͑͛̑͜ȃ̵͇̺̣̙̇́̔̈́̒͋̿͒͛̋̇͂͑ȑ̶̗͉̈́͌̔̒͆̾͝͝ ̴̻͍̳͆̌͝h̸̤͙̖̗̝͕̦͛͒̑̓̚͝e̴͔͆̄̏ȑ̶̨͚̬͎͊̍̈́̈́͊́͂̅̕͝ ̷̛̛̛̜̎̍͗̐͊̓̃͒̈̍͘ͅa̵̧̩̲͓̦͙̒̇̐̾̔̒̎r̵̳͍̯̻̙̈́̉͒͘͘m̶̼͖͖̦͎̜̑̄̈͜͝s̵͍̲̬̟̼̲̭̲̹͈̺̻̥̳͗̒ ̷̧̛̞͖̃̈́̈o̷̧̜͓̱͉̪͔̣̩͈͍̦̦̒̓̍̑̕ủ̵̡̗̜t̸̛̛̳̟͍̣̲̖̠̻͍̞̞̊̅̇͆̏̽̎͑̕!̶̨̧̨̺̥̯͍́̓̒̋̽́̐̃̔̏͘͝”̴̧̨̩͓̈́͛̚͜ ̸͕͒͋̃̂̍̾͗̈́̄̋̕̕̚͝ä̶̞̭͈͓͇͉͔͕̠͔̼̪́͐͐̂̋̐͆̎̄̋̄̐̐̿͝n̵̨̧̳̫̺̯͈͇̻͕̖͐͌̒͘͜ͅd̵͖̰͈̪̼̉̅́̏͛̉͌̉̔̉̿̚͜͝ ̴̛̤́̿͆̐̂͆̎͂̂̃͘͠͝p̷̦̌́͂͂̇̀̈́̒̊͌͝ļ̵̨̢̙͖͔̱̹̪̫͈͎̫̗̅̌͆̈́͗̎̕̚a̵̤̝͍̭̙̓̐͗͛͋̏́̒̀͐͐̏̚c̸̨͎̮͙̣̞͙̰̼̖̀̓͊̂͗̔͆ḛ̸̡̰̺̬̪̩̭̗̼̾͜͜ş̷̨͕͈̲̬͖̭̹̣̫̝̟̎̑̔͌́̎̍̃ ̵̙͕̘̩̤̯̺̟͔̦̏m̴̨̡͙͇̠͚̹͓̗͎͍͋͝e̴̟̥̱̕ ̶͉̙͎͖̳̋͑̂̀̅̒̇͂͘ị̴̥̠̼͎̗͎͛̈͛̇̌̓̆̋͐̀̓̒̍̕͠n̷̛̳̟̟͓͒͛̈́̉͆̓̾̊͊̕̚͝t̵͚̬̟̅̅͐̓̒̽́̏̓̄ơ̶͍͓̥̤̰̗̓̇̄͒͛͘͝ ̷͙̦͈̱̘̲̼̖̻̣̱̞̃̒̉̂̂̍͐̕ş̷̡̺̩͕̍̓̉̄́́̈̍̓̈̓̌͠͝o̵̢̡̜͊͌̉̉̈́̇͐͐̐̓̔̈́̊͌͠m̴̯̘̤̼̝͎̠͎̀̒͛̓̒͗͂̀͐e̵̳͓͙̎̌̄̄̎͒̇̄͛͘͠ ̷͔̰͔̿̈́͂͘͝k̵͈̬̱̫̭̦͙̀̋̆̐͜į̴̢̟͙̻̝̞̻̣̖͙̘̈̾́͜͝n̴̞̼͇̙̯̊̿͒̋d̶̡̡̥͈̖̦̖͈͉̲͙̼̘͙͔̏̃̋̈́̌̎̄̋͠͠ ̶̧̯̟̬̥̦͇͎̹̜̭̞̱̺̀ǫ̸̢͕̪̹̳̯̮̝̞̏f̵̢͚͔̪̣̱̠̺̞̋̍͌̔̑̍ ̷̢͚̮̱̞̪͇̰̜͚͎̄̊̉̈́̌͛̂̒̕͘s̶̬̙̗͈͂̎̅̒͆̄e̷̜͓̐͐͐̿͛̆̈́͑̉́̅̔̌͝ȁ̵͓̩͚̼̹̱͔̫̬̲̌̚t̶̬͛.̶̺̃̉̔̌̕̚ ̶̞͙͎̳̈̐̑͘H̶̨̨̪͙͍̭̳͚͎͕̯̦͋̾͋͜ͅe̵̢̲̊̕͝͝l̸̡̧͙̟͚̠̱͚̭̪̻̯̪̈͜l̷̢͖͙̯̖̪̩̳̖͇̺̭̰̯̾̊̉̈́͋̅̓̊͋͘̚,̷̡̰̙͇̊̿̅̿͑̔̚ ̶̛̮͉̺̙͕̊͜I̸͈͕̮̲͗̊ ̴̯̤͌͆͑̾̈́̅̇̇̈͝c̸̛̛̮̱̖̟͉̘̰͒̌̾̎̽̾̊̕͝͝ȯ̵̲̟͔̼̅̅͝ų̷̼̻͙͈̬̊͑̿̋̿̓̄́̓́͘͝l̶͍̭̺̏̃̃̾̃̔̈́̿d̷͖̬͖̥͔͇͖̭̮͉͚̈́̑͌͋̌ ̴͇͖̼̱͖̤̯̞̃͗͊̒́͊͐̓̆̉̾̇͂͘s̵̢̡̫̮̠̒͑͐̐͊̉͊͋͊̀͑͝͠t̵̢̤̖͖̩̍̿̉̃͆͐̇͐̇̀ǎ̵̢̡̟̬̦̬͔̮͚̳͓̠͉̤̏̌̔́̇̆̓̔͋̎̃͘͘ẙ̴̛̺̞̰̇̈́̇͊̈̃̓̊̾͌̍̚ ̴̢̧̛͖͖̲̙̦̗͙͋̄͆͂͆ḧ̵̤̰̺̜́̾͛̐̅̆̆̔́̕e̵̢̥͍̭̋̎̔̽̾̀͋̑͆͊͠ȓ̴̢̫͈̰̈́e̸̛̤̜̺͓̠̮̠̰̩̩̭̐̀̎̿̏̀̈́̒̓̍͛͆ͅ ̵͎̳͇̩̻̫̫̻̭̖̼̓͋̒͛̈́͐̇̈́́̾͋̒͜ͅf̷̧̯͉̭̘̲͚̦͈͈̟̹̅̓̀̇͠ȏ̶͉̔͑̆́̂̎͗͐r̶͔͓͇̼̲̫̝̭͔̮̔̉̇̄̊͑̓̚̚͜͝e̵̖̪̺͖͂̈́͒̽́̒͗̾̀̎̌͝͝v̶̢̛͚̇͌̄̍͒̍̒̏̕͘͝͝͝e̶̡̧̬̬̭̩͔̥͇͚̯͚͍͓̓̑͑͘̚ͅr̸̢̡̮̪̙͓̭͈̞̜̄̑̕

̵̧̬̲̬͓̙̥̤̯̪̻̰̱͈̀̉̑̈́͝M̸̝̣̭͂̀̊y̸̢̙̣̖̬̩̙̦̙̱͓̓̈̅̑̅̏͆͊̇̾̎̔͝ ̴̢̖̱̳͓̖͖̤̭̪̮̦͂̿̉̆͋͆͑͑̀͑̉̂͂̕ͅś̸̻̠̙̥̠̩̖͓̺̯̹̓̈͐̅̊́̓̋̎̏͝͝k̸̢̧̗̘̭̜̥͉͇͈̂̿̍͌̋ͅi̶̡̤̳̺͈̣̳̥̲̖̹̙̣̗͇̅͑̄̓͆̾͘ñ̴͍̟̩̦͉̝̳̠̋̔̒̀̇̊͆͑͘͜͝͠ ̵̤͕̫̬̆̍g̸̢͔͎̠͍̼͖̖͍̱͔̯̞̅͐̇̿̓̊̃͆́̔̍͝͝ͅę̶̗̥̤͈̙͍̤͆̏̿͋͘ͅt̴̡̲̭͈̝̜̜̉̌̔̉̈̾̃͂̚̚s̸͓͙͑̃͋͋͝͝ ̵̭͓̘̗̹͎̩͔̥̂c̶̢͓̩̳̘̈͑͋̈͐͒͂̚͠ŏ̶̦͓̰̆̑́̑̅͑̋̊̕͘͝͝ͅl̶̛̝̼̊̄̿̉̈͝d̴̤̲̲̯̥̤̫̫̝͒͂̈́̽̏̇̌̌͋̋̕͘͘e̷̢̛̯̹̝̣̥̥̰̜͂̑̍̏͛̍́̊̉͆̏̈́r̸̟͙̝̼̓̍̍̕.̵̡̦̭̝̟͉̘̰̊̾ͅ ̵̛̰̖͔̮̇Ḭ̸̡̝̻̞͇̲̩̰̝̙̺͆͒̑̓̍̊ ̵̢̤̰̠̝̣͙̠̙̬̙̠̆͛͊̉̒̑̓͌̈́̏͘ḩ̷͙̳̯͉̺̭̗̥̞̗̹͛̓͋͐͗̎̊̒̈̓̍͋͘͜͜ȩ̵̩͎̠̩͉̺͈̎̓̀͊͗͊̒͗̆͛͘͘̚͜͝a̴̛̛͖̭̖̮̱͚̳͍̳̾̌͗̂̏̅͗̓͠ͅr̶̢̛̖̯̮̼͈̪͈̻͈̍̿̄͗͛͠ ̶̮̤͝͠ţ̷̝̫̞͈̥͙͚̮̜̏͐͌͛̉̑̋̒̄̚͝w̸̧̗͕͈̣̼͕̹͇̣̞̠̦̓́̓͆͒̓̋́̚̚͜o̵̡̻̓͊̍ ̵̲̱̠̺̣̩̟͉̱̥̰̖̄̅̒̒̏̐͐̓̃͛͆͘͜͝ņ̶͓̠͈̲̖̲̤̬̖̫͔͚̍͘͜ų̶̹͕͓͉̰̟̺͙̬͔̼̽̔̑̂͑͋̑͐̓̿͌̍̍̕r̵̡̧̯̪̩̣̣̣̤͉̣̟͔̂͑́ş̴̛̺̫̰̟̹̼͓̂̈͌̓̽͑̎̑̅̉̚͜͝͝è̷̡̧̨͍͕͇̼͇̰͂̔́́̓́̌̌̐͌̏̅̇͒s̸̨̡̨͍͍̬̎̃͑̉͋̈́͛̽̈͐͑ͅ ̸͓̮̞͖̦̃̽t̴͓͖̣̰̥͇̱͚̥̓͛̄͋a̷̛͓̽̃̿̽͂̉̕͝l̵̡̛̩̠̦̙̭͈͚͙͆̃̊̊̕k̷̨̧͙̭̪̳̮̩̥̺͈̙̤̰̂̈́̍̀̆ḯ̵̛̟̿̂̇͋̽̇ņ̴̧̫̩͉̻̦͚̭̱̺͎̠̲̋̀̋̃͛̓͋͌̎̐͝g̵̙̣̿̇́̓͐̿̽͊̏̚͝ ̵̦̫̤̜͙͉̙̝̫̣̜͗̀̏̈́̽̽̊ȁ̴͇̜̱̦͉̥̈́͗̇̈́͌̅̅̎̕̕͘͝b̴̖̳͎̙̤̤͖͇̳̖̲̝͐̄̎͒̆ǫ̷̨̱̝͈̯̣̜͈̏̒͑̔̾͋͂̔͌̆͝ͅu̷̧̓͆̈́̎͆͒͆̿͠͠ţ̶̡͎̺͙̺͉̠̙̻͙̯̣̹̊̓͗̈́̅̀̅̀̽̏̚̚͜ ̵̢̦̟͙̖̉t̵̰̣̘̫͋͂̂̍̋̓͐̉̋̉̚h̶͉͖̫͙̠̮̤̳͕̭̟͍͛̆̄̓̌̇̉̂̚ͅe̷̲̮̣͙͙̙͚̜͚͉̻̞͖͍̓ ̴̨̟̟̺͍̺͛̐̈̅̓̐́̍̇͂ͅf̷̡̤̖̻̙̋̀͋̅̈́̊͑͌̚͠͠͝͠͠i̸̡̧̢̛͉̤̘͚͖͎̗̼̔́͂̄̈́̅̇̔̓̉̑͛͘͝ẹ̸̡͙̦͈̺̗̩͔͉͕̈́n̵̢̗̩̑̂́̒̾̆̄͌̎͠d̸̢̛̖̟̲̰̙͕͙͖̠͍̉̂͛̾̔̅̍̅͋͌̏͜͠͝ͅ.̷̲͉̱̲̜͕̦̞̼̞̝̈́̏͗̒͐ ̵̡̛̪̬̭̥̲̈́͗͛̍̃̐͘͘͝͠Ẹ̵̡̨̛̘̘̹͕̥͕͇̺͎̾͐̈́̏r̴̳̮̈́̉̊͋̓̑̇̓̓̌̆̈̕į̷̡̡͍͈͓̗͉̗̮̮̫̍͋́̄̈́͑̈́͂͑̍̅̚͝ͅc̵͇̯̓̂́̒ ̶̺̰̟̯͑s̶̗͓̯̈́̃̓a̵͙͇̘͇̞͍̘̰̯̝̥̬̘͑͂̓̊̃͑͂͋̾̋̚͜y̸̼̪̺̜̹͍͍͖͈͂̈́̈́̿̓͌̂̔̿͂̏̈́̑̚ͅs̴͙̗͓͎̦͙̹̣͙̑͌̌̐̈́͑̍̋̈͋͜ͅ,̴̹͐͋͋͌ ̵͇́“̵̨̦̩̰̝̠̺̙̯͕̱̄͛̐T̶̥̼̣̎̍̓́̃̓͑̄͗̿̃̕͜͜͝͠o̶̝̜̺͕̳̽̒̈́̔̀̑̊͝͝o̶̢̨̹̣̣̗̜͈̳̩͈̤̯̎̂͘k̸̡̡̡̧̯̥̯͖̥̗͎̓͋̎͠͝ ̸̧̜͈̣̹̩̩̣͉̰̥̣̪̇͆́̾f̴̛͓̐̓̎̽̂̍́̚͝͝͝ơ̷̧̡̢̛̠̟̼̪̜͚͍̲̽̔͂̄̈́͂͑̂͊͠ͅr̵̛͓̮̈́͑̋̽̔̎͊̒͆̚͘͝e̷̡̧͎̩̩̦̙̝̝̮̓̾̓͑v̴̫̪͎̘͎͔̬̠̤̝̣͂̇̔̌̉͛̈́̏̉̚͘͠ę̶̻͔̜̦͓̟̩͕̤̣̝͉̬̋͗̏̓̄͗͂͝r̴̡͔̜̟̒̓̑͌̍͂̉̅̓̐͑͆͋̕͠ ̴̧̘̜̖͈̣̤̬̺̙̟̫̌̌̚t̷̡͓͖̲̙̫̬̝͓̖͈͋̈͆̅̈́o̶͈̹̲̳̓̓͌̑̌̈̌̿͛͘͠͝ ̸̢̱͉͔̯̩̺͈̣̯̦̠͕̖̤́͛ģ̸̰͈͍͍͉͙̙͍̮̻̦̞̙̇̂̑ͅe̶͕͎͙͎̮̐͋͐̇͝ͅt̴̡̜͖͚͔͙̞̯͓̺͇̮̭̿̓̉͂̎̈́̾͑͊̒͘͝͠͝ ̴̧̝̬͉̟͙̯͍̺͉̳̳̓̓̐͘̚b̵̨̧̙̖̘̝̤͈̰̰͖͛̊̎ͅͅạ̷̫̪̤͎̋͆̆̈́͐͂̓̊͐̚͝͝c̶̮̜̞̟̲̬̫͐̂̏̍̈͒͘͠k̸͎̃͒̏͐̈͛͘̚ ̵̖͈̤̘̘̙͖͍̻̬̹̀̋̇̎͝i̷̮̦͉͑͊̊̃̌͑̃̃̆̔͜n̴̪͌̎́̏̋̀̅̈́̊̎̆̈́͠ṫ̷̡̢̳̼͓̬̳̩͖̙̖̦̺̎̓̈́͛̉̃̒̈́̍̒͘͝͝ͅõ̸̧̫̬͙͓͔̩̤͕̜̤͔͖͔̚ ̶̩̤̪̞͇͉̲͍̤͚̇̈́͂̕͘͝A̵͇͑͑̈́̃̀̇̓̔̈́̋̉̉̑r̸̨̡̘̙̠̝̼̤̦͕̱̦͓̱̅̎͒̅̌̐̕͠c̶̩̭͑̄̕ā̷͈͐̉͌̓͗̽͛͝d̴̢͖͓͈̹̱̙̓͑̊̂̑͗͊͆͑ị̷̧̺̫͕͆̽̐a̴̡͙̗͎̖̼̓́͠ ̵̢̛̛͎͙͔͍̫͓̰̜̌̈́͊̈́̋̈̍̇̔̍̉̚͘ͅB̴̨̯̼̠͇̠̱̤̜̟̪͎̦̟̄̏͛̎̉͒͂͆̒̍̕͘ͅä̸̲͔̫́̅̆̃͛̋̑̈̀̿͒͝͝ÿ̶̢̗͎̻͕̱͎́͋̈́͜ͅ.̷̣̺͔̯͕̑ ̴̟̲̟̰̹̦̣̩̐T̶̨̨̻̣̠̝̜̺͔̪͇͖̈́͊̂͗̉̎̾̀́͌͑̋̌͜h̴̨̨̛̛̠͕̪̖͎̹̦̤͈̳̦͐̆͑̇͊̑̽͝͝ė̵̝͇̺̾͜ ̴̧̟̭̜̻̥̍͛͐b̸̲̅̈́͆̃̓̚͘͝u̵̢̳̯̝̬͉̦̞̙͉̥̝̿s̴̢̛̰̩͈̺͉̩̻̺̖̬̊̈̈́͘͜͝ ̴̧̧͕̳̙̫̟̫͈̣̠̗̫̜̝ḏ̵̱̝͈͉̦̦̱̠̉̾̃̈̅̇̐͂͒͂͂̉͜͝͝r̴̢̡̟̿̚ī̸͓̫̽̓̄̆̈́̄̃̌̂͊v̵̡̹͚̊́̍̔̆͛̇͌̄͆̓ͅe̶͙͖̣̮̦̗͈͋̓̓̍͘ŗ̶̳̣̞͗̎̎̿͗̔̋̈͝͝ ̵̧͖̹͔͎̭̰̟̜̰͔̞͈̗̃̐a̴̳̱͖l̸̬̦͓̬͇̠̃̈́̈́͐̏͗̍̏͑͘̕͝m̸̡̢̩͍̥͕̞͚̩͓͉͍͆͐̍̿͋̍͋̑̈́͘͘̕ǫ̵̨̺̺̹͎̖̠͍̣̖̯̞͐̆̽̏̋̋̈́̉̕͠s̴̻̟͖̮̰̟͆̊̑̈̾̽̊̇̈́̒̉͜͝͠t̵̨̨̢̲̮͎̩̹͙̬̤̼̪͑͒̈̓͛̈́̈͆̽̈̂̆ ̴̛̩̰͙̱̖̀̽̂͋̅̈̋̈́̀̇̽̉̕̚͜s̴̢̡̛͈͔͇̈́͗̓͐̾̿̑̑͝t̷̗̎̄͐̂̃̿ŏ̴̧̡̯͍̱̳̯̼̻̻͛̓͌͋̉̾̑͗̊͘ͅp̴̢̮̥͉͈͍̣̲̝͙̻̪͓̟̜͊̀̄̆́p̵̢̡̼̲̼̣̗̼̗̬͈̏͊͗̓̏͠ȩ̵̺͚̖̫̫̞̱͇̲̻͈̝͐̉̅̇̓̇̎̊̑̚͜͠͠͝͝d̸̠͖͓̕͠ ̶̖̩̯͉̫̱̯̣̼̗̖̃̌̈͋͑͒̔͒͊̕͝h̶̗͉̖̽͛̀͗̓̈́̿̈͌͂̎̎͘̚ȋ̸̪̈̀̾̀͗̂͒́̐̈̇̋͝s̷̝̖͓͓͚̬̔͒́͊͐̏̄̉̒̒̿͘͜͝͝͝ ̴͔̣̪̥̟͕̍̋̋̿͋̾̌̎̐̑͛͘͝͝ͅͅͅț̶̗͗̀́̍́͘͝͠r̸̛̦̙̗̭̟͇̮̻̪͕̮̭͒̀̆͌͐͛̄̏͆͛͑̈́͜͝ͅi̸̯̠̪̱̙͖̙̹̞̓͜p̶̡̺͔̰̥̤̞̜͚͑̌̕,̶̢͍̝̜̯͇̖̗̻̳̦͍̉͗̾̃͆͊͐̋͂̍ ̶̫͎̈́̆̽̏̒ͅb̶̹̊̾̍̆͝ĕ̸̘̼͚̤̭̟̏ͅͅc̸̢̨͈͕̳̖̭̥̺̣̟͘͜͜a̶̙̤̮̔͒̍͝͝u̷̯̞̝͓̫͕̣̫̣̯̪͖̼̇̓̾̽̋͐̒̈́̃̊̀͋s̸̞̤͙̣̓̇̿̎͛͆e̸̥̮̭̫̋̔̓̒͋͛͑̊͒̅͝ ̴͎͙͙͇̫͕̩͎̖̘̠͎̹̻̹̏̈́̈́͌̑̍́͒̈͂t̵̙̜̤̻̔̒̌̉̃̔͑̒͒̽͘͘͝h̵̠̺̦̲̝̝̮͍͝e̴̢̝͔͈̞̭̮͓̰̳̬̰̊̈̋͑̊̏͛̈́̆̐͜͜ ̴̳̼̺̰̮̫̪̑f̶̨̥͂ǒ̵̡͖̗̯̙̠̻̤̣̐́͘g̸̢̯͖̮͕̭̳̲̽̂̐̏̄̏̿̐̍̑̋͝͠ ̴̢͎͉̝̱͙̝͇̱̂͒̕̚͝f̴͖̜̠͙̰̙̽̃̑̿̅̍̽r̴̨̧͚̤͖̪̖̝̪̝̮̹͊̆́̏̓̿͋͘͜͜ȯ̷̡̧͚̳̮̝̟̰͔̮͈̫̻̤̅̓͑̾̐̒̃̎͘̕͝m̷̹̜̞̳̳͚͚̜̀͊̿̈́̈́͋̚͠ ̴̡̫̪̥̘͈̘͎̰͓̬̦̭͐̽̓͆̎̂̿͑͒̾̃͗̕͜͠ͅẠ̴̧̪͕̞̥̗͎̘͖̟͇̄̽̾̇̽̀̇͜ȑ̷͇̪̖̙͍̤̟͇̟͇͇̙̿̓c̴̡͙̫̙̖͍̝͔̼̥̥̜͒̅̑͗̾͌a̸̛̜̪̖̯̱͉͐̊̊̄ḑ̵̋͑͛̆̎͑̊̃̿̔̆̓̄̽į̵͈̜̲̫͍̖͈̙̤̩̪̹͗͒̒ͅȧ̶̢̛̮͙̱̼̈͝ ̷̧̘̲͔̠̱̝̳͍̪̰̒͐͊͜B̶̧̢̛͎͈̞̲̱̣͇̟̪̫̦̩͎̓͒͛̒̈́̆͑̽̐̊̕͘͠a̸̢̘̘̗̞͇͚͂̍y̷̝̙̟͂͊̏͗̿̈̍͑̀̊͋̌̏̚ ̷͎̮̝͙̮̠̪͍͍̝͕͛̋͗͊̇́͜ţ̴͉̲͍̩̳̪̗̜̮̖̩̃̕͜o̵̩̮͊͋̓̎͑̑̓͛̓̌̐ ̷͎͉̞͚̫͖̤̠̰̳͒̄͂̿͂͌͛̌̇̂̈̃͊̅̃P̶͍̭̬̻̣̜͗̆̔̂̒͑̿̃͛̚o̸̢̨̨͉̝̞̪̳̘̲͖̾̅̆̌̏̿̿͜͝ͅṙ̷̗̝͚̖͖̼̫̔̈́̽͗͂̔̍t̸̡̹͖̱̎͂̈́͝l̸͉̙̤̰̐̑̇̈́͒̃̚͝ȃ̵͔̬̮͎̺̌̈́̔̅̕n̶̡̫͙͉̙̪̜̞̪͓̗̓̒ḓ̶̌̏͒̄̏̇̃͐́͜ ̵̭̮͈̩͎̮̾̓̃͋͜͝m̵͍̾̑͛̇͒͛͗a̴̙̯̋d̸̝͇̜͓̜̙͎͈̠̥̞̜͎̤̓̄ě̶̟̬̦̰̞͓̹͈͉̦̗͇̠̝̟̊͗̌̾̇̏̀͑̋̌͘͠ ̸̙̜̯̪̠̱̼̉̍̓͝ͅh̵̡͈͈͙̹̪̥͂̈́̓̉̓͆i̶͎̘͕̝̗͉̖͚͚͒̒͝ͅṁ̷̨̡̰̙̰̥͙͚̳̭̪̘̗̽̿̓̉̐̄̎̇̈́͋̕ͅͅ ̸̺̣͐͛̐̑̒̀̇͘͝b̵̨̡̦͎̜̦͚͈̯͇̙̘͙̉̓l̸̦̖̭̭͓̤̹̖̱̩͉̟̤̏̎̾̑͊̃͑̏̏͒̽̈́̚͝i̵̤̤̺̬̰̝͈̤̾n̶̼̞͈̤̘̳͕̘͒̓͗̌̽͆͝d̶̪̺̘̭̙͕̤̜͓̱͇̝͆̓̑͒͝.̶̛̯̱̩̗̞̿̏̇̃̎̆̃̄̏̐̒̋̌̄

_stop it! it feels like razor blades in my head!_

“̸̗̟̼̜̞̺̻̙͙̘͈̱̘͑̎̽͊̎̓̒͗̾̓͂Ṣ̴̢̱̫̳̳̖̔̂͋͒͑o̸̱̣̽̄,̵̢̡̘͖͕͕̳͖̝͚̮̑̈́̃̅̓͐͂̍͘͝͠ ̶̢̢̻̺̺̭̖͕̺͓̱͖̘̃̾̐̇̆̑͜͠ͅy̴̢̗̹̥̗̫̦̩̟̬̐̅̃̒̎̾̍̒̔̈̄̑͘͜͠͝ơ̷̧̛̟̝̞͎̳͐̓̋̉̉͐̄̏̔ȗ̶̫̦̺̼̓̿̊͋̓̒̌͒͠ ̸͙̦͈̮͗̈̋̑̓̔͆c̴̡̨̛̗̦̜̰̭̘̹̪̔̃͂̊̆̀̂̚͘ą̸͇̺̘̰͂͂̇͗m̶̡̡̛̥̈͆͆͛̆̒̿͝͝e̵̡̧͓̺̘͉̋̂̒͜ ̶̭͍̩̮͉̤̤̙̬͓͖̖͚̭̿̈́͌̄́͐͋̔͛͒̆̓̚̚ͅḅ̶̙̜̖̟̮̥̞̣̺̫̙͈̺̗͒͑͒̄͂̊̄͘y̸̧̛͎̲̜͉̥̠̪̓̈́̈́̂̌͋̂̐̃͆͆̚͝͝ͅ ̸̩̣̳͛̏̅̄̎͑̔̑̇̒͘͠b̵̨̙̙̼͎̺̀͌̀̒̈̄̓̋̎͂̌̋̾͝ư̴̙̯̝̼̫̹̽̾̎̐̍̾̋͌̈́̾͒͗s̵̛͎͚͚̰̩̳̯͐̑̚?̸̡͙̟̯͕̺̫̹̰͈͚͆̋̉̑͑̚͝”̸̢̩̞̦͖̳̠̳̩̜͗͛͌͒͌̃̉̊͂͑̆͆ ̸̨̨̡͙̠̩̤̯͚̯͉̮͛͐̃̊̈́̈́̚͜͝I̶̡͚̗̜̥̱͚̠͍̺̖̭̓̎̄̔ ̴̨̹̝͇̹͇͎̘̝̗͗̍̎ľ̴̡̛̠̪͚̤̻̠͎͍̥̓̇̃̋̅̽̾̈́̆͠͝o̶̧̹͎͝o̵͙̝͙͙͓͎̙̠̙̳̜̒͗̅́k̵̛̰̙̆͗͆̑͂̓̍̍̀̍͂͛̽ ̸̢̧̧̨̲̼͇̬͈̦̹̥͍̖͍̈́̿̒u̸̼͛̅͒̇̎͛͂͝p̴̛̬̪̙̼̬̪̲̝̽͒̈́̐͊͑.̸̧̢̼̞͔̪̗̓͗̎̐͒̽̔͑̀̅̾͜͠ ̸̹̜̯̥̲̾̑̃̓̈̋̉̊̅͐̍̚͝͠͝“̸͔͍͕̤̙̲̳̻̣̫̯̱͂Ý̸͍̟͕̔͐̿̐e̸̡̳̝̽̉̋̃p̵̧̦͔̝̲̱̯̰̙̮̘͕͇̭̅̋͐̈́̄̈́̓͜,̸̪͖̮͕̱̍͊͑̔̄̊̆̽͒̿̕ ̵̢̮̪͖̩̙͙̝͍͈̄̽͑͆̈́̑̂͜͝͝͠Į̶̛̩͓͖̳̪̬̝̤̻͉͆͑́̋͌̊͠͝ ̷͚̝̥͕͉͇̱͎̖̃̔n̴̢̟̳̟̟̈́̚ę̵̢̛͕̫̜͙̞͔̦͍̦̞̲̆̈͆̉̓̅̇́͌̈́͘ë̵̦̰͚̱̜̣̹̼̘̝̥̲̥́̍̏͒̍͜͝d̵̨̘̯̘̥͓̔̽̈́̅̏̐͋̄ ̸̛̛̳̻̦͎̈͆͒͗̈̓͝͝a̶̘͠ ̵̯̣͕̩̼̗̈́̋͛͊̌̆͜ͅc̷̢̛͉͗͒̈́͝ą̶̳̼̦͇̺̖̗̗̊̈́̇̋̎̚ͅŗ̸̦̙̭̙̜͉̹̱͇͕̱̉͌̓̊̓́̇̍͂͐̔͆͐̈́̚͜,̷̪͈͙̞̼͓͈͔͖̍͋̈́͛͑͐͛͗̒̋̂͜͜͝”̴̧̭̹͚̪̇̋̄̒͆̒͠ ̶̧̖͓̹̼̳̓h̶̭̞̯͓̙͎̻̟̻̤̰̩̽̉̅̿̍̃̚e̷̘͜͝ ̶͖̫̼̬͚̠̱͕͎̮̹̦͒̃͑͊̿̓͐̕f̶̢̺̙̙̹̪̟̟̺͚͛́̊̌̀̐̍̈́̈̓̆͝a̸̛̙͕̜̫̗̩͔̠͎̰̱̟͆͐̔̀̆̓̅͂̽̽̆͊͌ķ̴̫̪͐̾̾͂͑e̷̢͚̬̝͒͋̈̊ş̴̛̰̜̜̭̥̦̩̰̫̖͈̩̱͆̓͗̄̈̀̒͊̀͛͐ ̶̛͔͉͉̗̣͇̜͚̥̩̘̎̐̋̔̊̚͘͝ͅa̷̰̗̞͇͂͒̈̂͊͐̈́̑̓͝͠ ̸̘̯̫̤̩̜̓̓͑̃̂̌̇̓̂̏̏͘͜͠l̶̢̼̳̞̤̯͊̆̀͗ą̴̱̯͈̰͉̫̥͚͇͒̑̓̒̿̾͊͋͑͘͜ŭ̶̧͕̩̰̱̞͕̲̭̘̉́̏͑͜g̵̨̜̒̒̆́̇̉̊̕͠ͅh̶̨͉̿̋̚t̷̳̬̋e̶͙̮̲͓͎̖̎̇͘̕r̸͈͍̰̱̪̭̬͖̯̃̋̆̒̃̂̌͛̌̏̌̈́͘.̶̡̛̳̺͙̫͖̘̪͚̦̝̭̞͆̉̃̈́̕̚ͅ ̵̢̣̻̜̝̔́͗̽̌͌̓͂͂̆̌̚͘ͅ“̷̖̘̙̼̓͆̎͜͠W̷̢̆̈́h̴͎͖͔̜̽̋͑͑̌̏͊̅̾́̕͠e̵̡̡̧̛͍̯͔̥̱̱͇̗̗̙̒͐̐̓̽̈́̔͂ȑ̶̥͙̩̪̒͊̓̎̿̐̍́̑͒͘͠e̸̥͍̘̬̭̤͚̤͉̩̤̦͐ ̵̧̢̡͚͉̱̹̦͎̫̫͓̟͒͋͐͑̄͝i̷̻̭͋̅̍̕s̷̡̼͖̱͇̺̒͛̽͆̽̿̔̓̌̑̌̕̚ ̶̡̢̨̨̡̧͚̞̫̅̾̄̈́̕̚͝i̶̩̝͉̙̻̱̖̺͎̻̓̿̏͐̇̓͑̈́͜͜͝ͅt̷̰͐?̴̧̥̯̬̫̦̼̃̚”̵̧͕̫̜̦͎̳͗͌̍͆́̋̏͒͊͆̚ͅ ̷̨͙͍͖͕̙͚͖̰̠̻̖̂̏̔̓̎́̈͜E̸̠̭̲̪̣̠͎̭͎̒͋ͅṛ̶̛̲͕͕͉̙̯̮̻̺̀̿̕̚͠ĭ̴̛̪͚̠̜̪̳͊̏͛̄͑̃͆͝ͅc̶̬͓̣̹͓͌͆͑͆͌͑̅̊̅̆̉̔͜͝ ̵̡̨̡̹̼̭̫͔̜̗̮͖̝̦̈́͗͗͜o̴̺͈͛̊͂̆̈́̈̍͆́͊̾̈́͝b̷̲̫̘̪̯͔̱̹̅̑͝v̶̧̩̖̱̗͈̱̱̺͉̖̻̽͌į̴̟͔̪͕̠̲̄̊̊o̶̡̨̢͚̫̺̥̼͍̖̳̺̽͐͘ũ̷̼̫͖̘͛̈́̎̃͌̎̊̉̈́͆̂͘̕͜s̸̟͖̫͕̋̄̉̽̏͂l̸͙̬̄͊̈́̇̾̉̚͝͝ý̷̥̼͍͖̾̓̋̅͆̎͐̋͂̔͠ ̸̹͖̙̖̪̺͉̟̥̹̠̈̑̆͜͜ͅa̴̬͓̟̫̮̙̹̿͜ͅs̵̩̱̦͇̠͙̞̺͂͆́͜k̶̡̛̗̪̟̟̻̗͍͈̳̋̎̀́̊͌̔͂̏̚s̸̢̢̝͔̺͖̞̦͎̘̙̹̿͛͛̒̀̓̋͌ ̷̡̹͖͙̬̫̖͍͐̊̃͋̑ͅs̸̥̭̗̮̪̤̺̩͓̝̙̑̒̐̈́̀̋͑͛̾͋̓͒͝ͅo̴̡̭͉̳͉̿̉̀̒̃̅̈́́̋͑͝ͅm̶̞̀̀̑̂͒̆e̶̹̐ò̵̹͉͛̈̉̏͗͒͌̏̈́͒͘͝n̴̨̙͙̦͍̔̒̽͑̽̓̓̿̄͌̀̽ȩ̸̩͚͈̥̮͓̤̄̽͛̐̿̍͐̚ ̶̩̥̙̰̀͑̒̃͒̇̿e̸̢̥̙̗̗͚̘͒̅̊̌̓̽̐̽̔̀͝͝͝ḽ̸̿̔̓͆̎̇̏̒̈́͝s̵͕̜̟̤̞͉̖͔̭͙̏̚͜ȩ̴̧̞̤͎͓̺̘̙̥͔̹̤͕̮̃̕ ̴̤̬̞̘͖̆̈͒̃̈́ẁ̸̡̧̝̓̉̓͌͊̓̔̇̉͂̓̚h̷͖͉̗̯͈̲̳̟̝͋o̸̞̝͕͓͐̍͒̂͋̉̂ͅ ̶̡͉̯͎̘̖̘̪͂̀͗̾̊̏̑̔̋w̵̛̪̳̎͊͗̒̈́̔̉͌̍a̴̧̙͔͕̥̖͉̺̝̜̼̻͖̔̂͐͒͂̑̚͠ḽ̴̢̳͔̥̼̼͔̙̖̬̩̊͊̈́̆̈͛͐̾̋͘͝͠͝͝ͅk̴̛̺̱͓̊͒͐̔̋͆s̸̡̗͖̋̏̈́͐̈́͌̒̍̑̒̈̐̿̅͜ ̸̢̧͕̮̮͕̘͚̻̣̥̪̞͚̻̔̃̐͝ņ̵̗͕͖̜̹̹͚͎̪̝͇̬̦̯̎̍̓͛̂̂e̶̢̩͈̤̦̠̰͍͎̹̖͊͑̽̈́̏̓̑͑͗ͅx̷̺̰̹̝͎͔̲̤̟̳̰͑̏͂̋͗̌̾̉̕͠ͅẗ̸̨̞̬̺́̿̇̕ ̸̡̬̥̣̻̬̖̭̹̼̫̍̊̐ṯ̸̨̻͂̄̏̎͆͊̇͋̅̿͐o̵̬̦͕̠̮͓͇͉͒̂̽́̈̈́ ̵̙͍͓͙̳̘̩̲̻͚̙̼̭̜̽̉̂̈́̍͆͘͠͠h̵̙̤͇̹̣̮̻̜͈̽͒̍̃̎͆͗ỉ̷̧̡̨̫̦͇̫̮̦͈͎̽̏̀͌̂͑͐̾̈́̽̑̚͠m̶̫̹̟̟̣̻̗̫̐̆̐̆͐̌̇͜.̸̡̢̳̞̮͔̹̂̇͒͐̑̒̉̌̋͝͝ ̷͉̠̭̗͔̙̂̉̑̈́͘͜“̵̛̛̯̔̽̾̂̋͋͊̈́̊̀̒͠R̵̲̭̭͍̹͓̣̗̭̳̪̯̤̱͗͐̈́̉͐̈́͌͌̅͑̅͊̓͛ͅí̸̧̢̢͓͇̮͔̼͙̝̤̙̋̂̓͆͊̅̓͊̏̚͜ģ̴͉͉͉̝̣̥̖̪̬͙̽̆̆̏͑̂̏̀̈́̏͝͠h̷̨͓̱̬͍̰͕͋̓̿̐̇͒̿͛̓͂̔̚͜t̸̖̃͌͂ ̷̡̫͉̹͕̪͙̲͎͈͓̖̳́ͅț̴̡̰̙̰͇͍͙̖͓͌̍͌̽͆̇̽̿̉̋̊̍̈͆͝h̷̢̫̺̅̍e̶̢͓͚̳̺̽͐̆͒͜ͅͅr̴͈̗̯͓̦͍̂̈́̿́͒̈̔̀͗̚̚͜͝͠͝͝e̸͕̹͚͐̉̍͛͋̓̓͋͊̽̐͘,̵̢̛͍͙̭̙̹̭͔̩̤̑̽̏̽͑̈̄̔̾̏͋̓̚͠”̶̢̱͚̫̠̍͛͐̾̕͘̚ ̵̩͍͓̮̯͕̝͇͔̪͖̭̻͑̇̓̋ẗ̸̜͓̝́̆̐̀̋̈̎͛̇̂̐̋̅̌̈́ͅh̸̢̛̗̼͐͊̈̐͆̀̓͠ę̸̹̘̰̲̖̤̠̰̣̜̬͈̇̊̾̈́̓̆̕͝ͅ ̴̡̨̫̖͖̲͛̍̅̾͂͊̈́̓͜r̷̝̮̈́̈́͊a̶͍̟͍͙̤̺̟̣͍̾͜ͅp̸̢̥̟̫̍̆̏̋̃̎̂̾̃̅̔i̶̧͈̱͎̠̗̤͖̙͋̓̽̔̎̃̕s̸̡̰͓̼͇̝̰͚̞̯͚͎͂͌́̈́͗̀̄̐̉̕̚t̵̢̛̫͓̝̓̐̂̈́͂͊̑͐̊̈́̑ͅ ̵̛͇̻̎͑̋̈̔͝s̶͎̳̣̰̥̼͒͋̎̈̉̌͘͠e̴͙̤̺͔͝ĕ̸̡̜̭͓̙̘̎̉̃͐́͐̋̉̋̕͜͝ṁ̷̬͕̭̪͇̞̜͛̍̌͆͊͋̀̃̍͐͘i̷̧̥͕̜̱̺̥͉̯̖͕͋̌̄̌͌̐̕̕͝ņ̵̡͕̬͚̣͇͉͓͔̻̱͉̇͂̓̐͒̈̔͒͌̂͆̈́͘͠g̵̢̣̭̰̭̻̟̲͙̅̓̒͘l̷̨̨̢̡̛͚̭̞̣̪͇̲̻̝̹̏̓̂͊́̋̓̽̓̓͒͗̚͜y̸̬̾̓͂͒͂͛̋̈́͒̏͝ ̷̦̯̞̹̱̫̜̗̫̯̿̌͒͋͌̏͛̄̂͒̂̔s̷̛̟̜̮̒̊̅̍̊̎͑̂͐̄͊͘̚m̵̧̛̞̱̮͇̑͐̏̏̆́̔͌̿͊̽͘į̴̰̠̳̝̏͂̿̂̂̓͌͗͝l̵̢̢̲̙͈̳̯̘̩͉̭͗̎͑ȩ̶̼̺̟̼̟͎̭̮͉̃͋̔̓̂͐̓͜s̸̢̛̤̥̣̈́̑̽́͘ ̴̛͕̼̲̜̲̠̯͑̍͛̀̔͌̕a̶͕͙̥͎̓̈͛̈̏̃̈́͌̓̈́̍̽͛̍͜͠ņ̴̢̯̥̭̪͓͍̹̰̰̠̳̟̱͂̅͛͠ḑ̸͎́̾̽̇̌͋̄̒͝ ̷̳̞̫͈̿͐c̵̛͉̝̠̺̙͖̥̮͓̬͎̽́̿̊́͝͠ḣ̶̢̢̧̛̼̫̯̲̗̻̻̮̞̬́̈́̈̎̓̒̔̍͆̉̒͘͜͠ừ̷͍̺͋̂̚͘͘̕c̶̫̉̿̑͊͆̀̊͆͋̔̐͘k̶̹̲͓̳̞͉͎͆̊̍ͅl̸͈͙̙̀͆͗̑̌̀̋͐ȩ̸̜̦̺͙̜͖̣̼̰̲̃̓̄͐͑͝s̸̯̪̳̝̯͙̹̳̫̲̈́̋̿͆͊̎͌̎̃̐̑ ̷̪͍̟͇̘̘̫̾ä̵̡̧̪͓̙̗͍̭͙̦́̒̈́̈́̀̋̐̾ͅt̷̘̘̣̘̰̲͓̒̎̆͗̋̕͘͜ ̴̟̣̲͙͎͇̥̣̘̝̋̔̒̽̕͠ť̵̫̼̦͑̆̋͗̾͑̀͂͌̽̒̒͘͘ḩ̸̱̳͙̻̤̞̞̺͚̣̞̀͆̿͋̐͂͊̑̓͆̏͐͘͜͜ͅe̶͓̳͌͒̀̉̑͗̔̃̕ ̷̡͚͉̘͉̦͈̪̱̘͖͈̓̎̈̏̽͛̾̈́͒͒e̵͓͕̦͖̣̺͔̼͉͉̦̔̎̑̓͒̿̽̌̀͜͠n̷̨͊̐͛͗̒̽͗͒͂͗̍̍d̷̢̨̫̞̪̜̲̀̎͑̔͋͊̋͝.̶̟͖̽͂̐̆̃̓̍͆̿̃͒̕̕ ̸͖̿̄“̵̢̛̠̲̦̖̤̱̳̠͔̅̌̎̐̎͑͗̌͝Ḻ̷̡̹͍͓̻̯͙͈͙̑͛̒͆͂͆̋͐̐̌̔̾͝͝ạ̷̼̪̳̊̄́͐̓̊̎̈́̋̇̕͝t̵͈̮͕̘͑̔̑͌͂̅͂̍̔͐̈͘̚ḛ̵̛̦͉̑r̷̢̧̯̝͙͔̖̻̊̋͒̽̌̉͋̑̀̚,̴̧̥̜̼̙̞̣̪̲̂͛̿̇̅͛̀̀̀͗̿̅ ̶̧̨͓̣̭͖̗̭̒̄̊́̌̕͘͝͠͝͝d̵̡͕̝͕̫̻̝͐̉͘o̵̮͈͓̱͈̖͍̣̬̟̱͛̅̽̂̌͛̕͠͝͝͠ͅͅǫ̶̳͔͇͇̯̟͎̞̯̮͈̼̹̋̓̓̑̆̍̃͌̈́͜f̸̨͕̺̥̼̲̻͓̬̣̫͇͎̝̐̌̔̆̏̀̓̓̚͠u̸̱̝̹͖̫̺͍̒̄̐̓̓̿̓͋̉̆̽s̶̻͍̗͕͎͖̬͔̟̯̩̪͑̄̂̅̊̎ͅ!̸̜̠̟̗̲͊͐͗̋̆̈́”̶̟̭̫͚̠̻͈̫̩̣̖̍̅̽̾͜ͅ ̶͈̳̫̈́̐̌̌̈̓̅̈́́̎̐͗̍͝Į̷̨͇̲̘̼̥̍̈́̆͆̍̓̒̋͛͋͐͝͝ ̶̡̳̯̪͈̮͔̝̲̎͒̿͒͌͒h̴̠͚̤̦̬̪͇̱̘͉͖̫̆͂e̸̡͈̹͍̺̼̬̳̔̽̈́͋̎̉̏̔̕͜a̸̻̥̠̭̟̬̣̤̮̱̰͇̩͐͗͛̀ͅr̴̨̧̬̱̤͓̩̹̤̽͊̽ ̸̠͖̰̹̗̲̻̲̣̱̠̰̝̉̾̓͒͌͊̅͗̃̓̾̈́̎̚ḩ̶̨͍̻̙̼̮̐i̶̛̛̗̹̍͛̽͑̃͌̏̓̀̋͘m̷̨̧̡͈̻̠̯̩̺̟̙͖͎̅ͅ ̸͇̞̦͎̥̩̖̲̩͇͔̻̓̒̒͆̾͜g̴̗͉̣̫̬̹̼̠̭̳͛̋̑͗͆̄͐̋͂͛̎̄o̶̢̢̳̻̥̞̬̹̖̹̗̞̰̰̒͜í̴̡̗̤̺̬̖̼̮̮̱̗̆̒̅n̶̮͎̠͇̻̠̰̈́̄̽͂̄g̵͍̝͍̀͋͋̎͂́̚͝͝ ̷̛͔̥͉̜̤̩͇͕̪̣̙̤̟͈̌̑̂̀̃͜a̶̮̼̜̞̖̐̌͐̑͛̑̈́̾́̑͜͠͝ŵ̷͙̯̥̌̐̎̎̉̓̃͘ā̷̖͎̺̫̮͇͔̳̈́͗́͜y̴̼͉̘͉̥̥̿ͅ.̷̬͎̪͈̝̺͚̱̰͖̎̊͊͗̉͛ ̵̨̳͕̞̹̦͕̯̜̗̖̹̣̰̐͑̆̓͐̉̐“̸̢͓͚̪̯̻̞͊H̴̬̪̥͖͙͙͇͐̌̓͗̕ơ̸̡̢̢͓̺͖͚̥̘̟͖͉̜̩̋̉̍̒̋̈́̈̍͝ͅẅ̷̜̳͔̤̦͍̟̳͉́͊́̋̍͒̑̏̕͝͝’̴̻̩͈̙̪̈̆͋̀̍̊̄̚̕̕͠ş̷̧̩̟͚̠͓͉̫͉͇͆͛̓͐͆͂̑͘͜ ̴̢͇̱͉̥̩͖̲̣͋͂͑͋̎̌͊̊w̷̡̨̗̣̫̬̟͚̎̔̌̕͠ō̸͖̠͖̣͖̱̤̝̎̇̐̌͒͊͑͠͠r̸̫̣̣̯̤͎̖͍̈́̎̏͛̒͘͜͠ͅķ̷̪͇̯̯̙͎͖̗̰̝̘̂̌̓̆́͐͆͠?̷̛̬͙͚͑̈́̔͐̾̂ ̶̫̜̜̭̟̰̺̫̰̝̪̿̿̇̚͝T̵̻͕̼̹͈͔͇̞̝̪̭͍̗̾͋̃̉͛͐̔̓̒̌͆͐́͌̔h̷̡̡͚̗̥̠̘͉͇͚̹̱̭̦̻͂͠i̵͉̭̣͗̏͌͑̓͋͒̍̔̋͒͑͊͆͜ͅn̵̛̯̮̺̘̺̺̱̅̆̈́̂̒̿̈́̚͝k̷̡̧̗͎̫̥͍̠̫̹̘͙̙̖̿͒͑ͅì̷̹̣̱̖̭͖͙̲͖͚̺̱̮̂͗̃̇̆̏̀̒͘̕n̵̼̯͙̲͍̱̱̤̑̇̂͆̎̚ͅg̸͉͗̾͊͌̍͑ ̷̧̡͎̟̫̬̜̼͇͎̋̐̋̈́͆͌̄͂̓̉́̾̚̕̚ä̸͉̝́̊͂̕b̷̢̛͓͓̓̀̊̍̆̾̏͑̑̕͘̚͜͝o̴̡̧̞͙͇̫̳̫̤̖͎͗̓͑̋̀̈͘͝u̷̧̨̩̘̘͍͕̩͈͌̔͂̄͑́͛̽̇̀̿̿͗̇͜ͅt̶̡̛̲̖͚̰̰̻̬̥͈̅̓̇̊̕͝ͅ ̵͍̝̏͐̆͂̒͂̓͊̽͂̀͒g̴̛̥̞̘̰͐̆̅͐̕̚ơ̷̧̡̤̟̤̯̣̏̇̃́͜͠ͅį̶̩̥͈̟͓̬̼̣̪͇̩̪̋̽͂͋̉̃̚n̵̤̖̖͔̩͑͜ͅg̶̭̰̯̳̱͖̲͙̟͌͗͑͘͜͜ͅ ̴͉͉͙̄̉̇̐̅͝b̸̧̦͉̲̠̬̟̈̈́͗͋̆̋̓̈́̈͆̎̚͜͝a̴̻̞̫̩͕̮̠͖͍̱̲̜̭͇̯̋͑̔ć̸̢̺͎̠͇̭̩̲͍̻̮̽̓̄̈̚͠͝k̵͍͚̥̗̼̯̦̯͉̄̐̂̆ͅ ̵̱͔͋̐̈́̔̒̿͋̾̓̊̕͘̚͝h̵̢̢̞̰̬̻̰̼̼̫͚̟̲̞͈̊̆o̷̡̼̣͎̘̳̼̝̬̱̙̺̻͊̅̕m̶͈̳̤͔̘̳͇͙̩̼̼̍̈̈͐e̵̮̭͙̣͓̞̩̩̣̟̘͔̮͇̼̅̒͛̒͂̏̏̄̚?̴̟̳̟̫͔̼͖̖̯̘̯̙̠̩̀͊̆͠”̷̛͉̺͔̥̺̳̅̓͒̈́́̃͋͑̊͘͝ ̵̛͍̣̲̬̭͉̈́̒̉̒̊̆͊͛̌̉̂̍̿͑ͅĬ̴̛̞͓̩̬͈̺̣̈́̊̐̋̂͌̉͆̑̕̚͘ ̵̡̛̫̹̪̙̯̐̏̑͗̾̍f̶͎̪͙̫̣͙̥͚͍̻̙̬̳̺͝ą̵̛̭̝̰̙͇̣̯͉̼̙͍̩̿͆͗̎̽͒̍̈̚͜͝͠͝͝k̶̢̠̙͙͓̥̟̙͖̙͎̤̍̋̐͌̀̔̕͠e̴̹̰͇͖͔͓͉̻̎͆͐͛͆̉̽̔̃͘ͅ ̸̛̘͓͉̮̃̊̐̄͗̊̈́́̃̿̏͝m̵̡͓͍̣͕̏̈́͆̑̽͠y̷̨̺̦̬̲̞͚̰̣̟̻͈̩̠̎͑̾̔ ̶̜̱̔ơ̷̫̲̥͚̭͉̤̟̥̞͓̠̒̎̂̅͛͐͒́͆̽͐͜ͅw̸̨̧̧̮̝͕̳̻̠͍͎̺̳̽̉̓̈́͝͝n̴͇̫̮͇̤͖̰͉͛͛̂̽͌̑́̈́̾͑́͠͝ ̵̛͎̾͛̋̇̃͗̾̊̚̚s̷̢̟̞̩͕̲͎̝̬̏̌̈̎͠m̶̧̡̘̭̘̥͔̻̜͙̤̘̞̱̋ͅi̴̢̧͖̝̳̝͙̯̖̯̮̖̤̫͛͂̓̓̿̅͒̃̕͝͝͝l̸̡̨̨̜͙͈̩̰̈́̓̀̌͌̍̂ë̸̡͔̳͚̩̣̩̩̙̞̩̮́̇̒̓͑͛̌͛̃̒̾̏ͅ ̴̲͓͉͔̆̏̓̊̓̉͜a̸̢͉͈̖̱̬̼͎̜̰͈͐̅̏̉̎͒̓̽̈́n̷̢̤̘̲͉̫̣̎́̓̓̌̍̓͆́̊̉̈͒̚d̴̛̰̼̱͇̟̤͚̰͌̅̊͛́̑̊̒̔͒̈́͑̅ ̶̢͖̜̝̭͓̮̈́͗̅l̸̲̘͊̽͐̓ȍ̵̢̅ỏ̴̡̨̞͚̥̥̙͓̂͒͋͛̽̊̅̿̕͘͝͝k̵̛͙̩̻̭͆̐̓̕ ̵̫̥̭̲̝̝̪̂̇͂͂̅͒͐̾̉̈́̎u̶̱̲̇̿̾͝p̸̡̮̬̗̳̺͈͕̞̯͐̀̑̔̅͛̚͜ ̵̛̛̙̜͈̲͈͈̯̥̥͐͊̈́̓̃͋̃́͊̒̈́̕͠t̴̜̬̖͓̙̅͂̋͒͌̐̆̀̐̓̈́͝ö̸̧͍̝̗̲̖̮̝̺́̾͒̿̓̒̒͐̉͝ ̴̩͙̪͑̽̔̄͑̓͂̚͝͝h̵̨̡̡̩͓̞̺̦͑̿͒͛̒̉̈͐̾͋̕̚i̴̛̛͚̱̭͓̿̈́̌̈́̇̉͗̎̄͝m̴̨̰̞̱͔̹͕̘͍̟̈́̑̂̈̈̿̔̽͂̃͛̐.̸̪̗̝̗͉̘̑ ̶̛̬̃̐̍̂̉͑͑̓̚͠͠I̸̧̧̼͇̻̭̝̽̈́͒̒̃͐͆̔͂̌̄̚͝ͅt̶̢̨̥͖͖͕̝̭̬̺̘̰͍̻̱͊͌̀́̓͘’̵͈̝̠̖̗̥̱̖͖̘̇̾̄̃̃̿̓͑̚s̵̡̹͍͎̘͇͋̊͌̃͝ ̵̢̨̡̙͍̽̇͑͒g̶̨̰̲̭͈̯͒̍͛̾̉̓̏̇̎͋̀́͝ẹ̸̡̧̢͎̙̻͕̙̥͈͈̖͒͋̋̀̋̑́̉̓̍̚͜͠ͅț̶̭̪̞̱̤̮͙̼̘̊̑̈͜t̴̥̱̬̞̦̆̅͛͝͝i̴̡̠̜̞̗̱͎̝̫̦̯̭̣̓̂͐̚ñ̴̨̟̲̥̝̯͉̝͍͆̍̈͑͝g̸̢̨̥̪̤̭̹̊̇ ̷̧̛̱͚͓̥̥̙̪̂͋͐̀̈́̏̈́̍̑̈́̌̕͝ͅc̸̮̯̖͇̝̄͂͋͂̈̍̐̋͊̅̃̚̕͝o̸̙̜͒͂̈́͗̈́̂̄͋̌͘͝͠ĺ̷̯̱̞͖̫̩̲̠̼̇d̴̦̖̭͖̲̪͚̐̅e̶̡̦̟̊̃r̶̝̱̮̀͑̒͂̚.̵̡̪͓̻̜̰̖̣͍̹͓̙̥̅͊͐̿̑̓̚͘ ̵͓̣̝̜̫͆͗̒“̷̫̞̎̅͗̍̂̂̓͒̓̑̚Ĉ̸̡̫̣͚̪͉̣͓̩̟̜͙̙͔͛ǫ̴̥̥̰̺͔͍̭̆͒ų̴̹̲̻̦̱̞̩͖͌̐͆͛̎̏̚ͅl̷̢̖̱̮͓̍̉d̵̖͈͂̍́̌̊̌̒̔̋͝ ̴̢̢̜̫̪̝͕̟̟̦̲̮͓̉͛͂͒͆̈̒̈́̊̈́͋͂͌̚u̴̡̯͙͚͖͚̓͂̚s̸̨͙̱̗̭̺͍̳̍̓̈̊̔̑̿̈́͋͆̉͜e̶̛̛̺̾̄͒̀̐͆̃̊̕͜͝͝͝ ̸̡̛̳̪̲̰͍̘͉̦͔̠̳̪͆̓͆͗̇̉͋͝͝͠͝a̷̮̫̅͑̈́̉͐̇̂̅͂ ̴͔̹͉͕̩͓̰͚̟̜̜̖͒̋̓̎͂̋̅̀̒̎̿͗̈͝b̷̨͙͓̖̱̱̪̻̝͖͙̳̱̞͚̑̓͒̂̇͐̏̽́̿͋͗̓̚l̵̡̧͈̝̺̫̜͉͔̱̺̠̊͛̿̈̔̽̽͛͘͠ă̸̖̍̈́́͑̾̾̓̽̕̚͠n̸̦̥͐̈̏k̴̜͖̬̹̏̌̽ẹ̵͖̉͊̈̍̿̕̕t̷̡̢̛̤͈̽̐̈́̈͌̅͝͝,̸͇̯͔͖͚͎̙̣̩̪͖̪̰̋͐͋̌̃̂͒̉̈́̀͘͜͝͝”̷̢̯̣͇̤̦͌̈̄͝ ̵͚͎̮̝̜̖̲̝͍̰͓̠̘͔͔̋͛̒̄̆̕͠͠Ȉ̷̢̘͎͓̹͑͠ ̴̢͔͔͕̫͚̣͉̯̏̍̍͑̿̔̌͌ç̷̥̹̫̮̙̰̃̔̉͒̏̔̅͛̋͝͝l̶̬̔̋̕ȃ̶̧̼̣̩̯͖͎͖̭͍̥͎̳̌̈́̈́̋̈́͘t̷͍̜̲̪̙͖͇̘̬̪͇̖͕͋̐̇͑̑̽̾̈̕̕̕͜͠t̷̰͎̟̔̐͂͗͊̇̾͛͗̚͘͝͝ȩ̷̢̡̞̮̖̤̪̫͍͓̺̗̏̈́͒̈̓̓̎̽̊̿̚ͅṙ̴̢͈̹̀͑̀̑͘ͅ ̶̨̧̻̲̦̣̰̪̌͒̽͘͜m̴͕̟̪̬̭̼̙̮̝̎̇̓͂̊̿̑̊͘̕͜͝ͅỹ̸̪̘̈͋͒̔̾̿͊̓̏̏̀͜͝ ̵̨̛͎̟̮̬̫̾͠t̸̢͈̪̤͍̗̏̾̿e̶̜̣͓̠̭̼̰̳̱̠̞̰̫̍̔̊͌̾̈́̊̇͑̐̓͋̑ͅe̴̡͎̩̓͗́t̶̡̩̠͖̗̭̫͉̺̳͌̍̽̒̏̂̚͘͜͝ͅh̵̩̹̣͕͓̜̗̻̜̳͖̭̻̆͐͗̈́̏ͅ.̷̙̝̣͍͙̘̹̜̆̾̇̍̄̀̚̚͜ ̴͉͖̯̗̮̑E̶̡̢͍̤̳̩̖͎͙̞̞̓̎̏͘͜͝r̵̹̣̞̪̜̼̟̫͑̍i̵̤̩͔̝̟͔̟̰̩̹̦̯̦̕ͅc̷̢̨̻̣͇̺̞̳̏̈͛͗͋̕͝ ̵̢̢̡̧͓̣̝̦͎̦̤͔̮̻̺̇͛̈́͛̃̈́̒h̸̨͔̟͇́̎͆̆͂̈̂̈́a̷̢̧̡̻̼͍̝̼̘̱͚͛́̓̄͜s̵̢͈̯̼̯̞̱̗͋̍̐̇͘̕̚͜͝ͅ ̸̨̧̖̠͚̝̯̲̟̎̈͊̂͗̋̀͐ẅ̷̡͕̯̣̝̱̱̪͈͓̯͍͖͒͊̊͛̈́̎͛̔̚̕͜͝å̸͎̅͛͗̇͝ņ̷̡̢̼̺̬͕̩̿̃̃̐̐͐͛̐̐̐̋̍̂̚t̷̡̡̻͎̫̜͙̪̺̘̙̰̣̱͛̄̉̂͑̏͊̏̇̎̍̽͘̕͝ͅë̴̗̞̰̻̽̋̀́͘͜͜d̷̨̧̧̢͉̯̦̺͖̮̪̪̬̫͎̍͊͑̚ ̶͍̽͒̆̓̾̿͋t̶̺͇̲̜͔̞̝̲̤͇͔̮͔͐̆̊͂̏̆̉͌̃͜ǫ̵̙͍͔̻̭̯͍̦͐͌̆̿͂͘͝͝ͅ ̸̞̖̳̙̤̜̙̬̺̇̍̅̉̈̓h̸̢̄̄̄̐̉͗͂̽̈́̑̚͝è̷̢͓̘͔̖͈͗͆̍̆͐͛̒́̅̓̀͜͠ǎ̵̡̡̡̩̯̩̰̠̞̥͍̟̜̒̊͛́̽̿̃̆͐̌͘ḋ̶͈ ̵̧̻͙͈̳̯͚̼̤͖̘͙̖̽͜o̴̧͖̩̬̻̻̱̣̬͎̝̙͔͎̙͂̅̋̿̀̽̿ú̵̖̥̤̍̑̊̐̅͒̅̍̓̏̃͜ẗ̵̬̝̙͕̲̫͉̤̹́͗̅̐̚ͅs̸̛̠̝͚͉͓̙̤̳͒̇̈́̊͊̚i̶̛̗̥̮̠̻͙̿͒̓̌͊̏ḑ̸̛̪̯̗͔̱̣̓̂̾͋͌̈̂͑̿͠ȩ̵̯̲̤̱͓͕͉̲̱̫͕͕͂̉̎̑͑̀̃̔̓͘.̷͇̣̥̥̯͚̩͔͚̹͍͉̥̬̪̀̈́͛̃̾̂̍͗̕ ̶͙̽̈́̊̾̆̽“̴̧̲͙̹̰́̓̊̈́̎͆͝W̵͈͓̪̼̮̼͉͓͙̠̞̘̐̄͘ͅǎ̷̢̨̭̭̟̯͍̩̤͌̕i̸̱͖̜̹͎̣͖̳͎̤̲̼̅͝ͅͅͅt̵̞̙͂̅͆͛̓̈́͠ ̸̬͕̬̚a̵̛̱̲͙̼̬͔̯͖̮͍̿͛̇̆̊͌͝͠ͅ ̷̡̞͎̰͉͈̹̟̗̔̊͜m̵̡̢̛͕͚̜̖̺̫̦̟͎̹̘̍͌͊̉͊́͂̓̈́̇͂̕ͅo̷͉͍̹̳̥͓͖̯̥̙͚͌̊͂͒̄͊̈́́̉̕͠͝͝m̸̡̢̱̻͈̳͖͉̳̺̘͊̊͊͑̇͂̄̽̄̌̚ě̵̢̦̲̣̬̣̲̥̰̥̰̦̝̜̌̉n̴̛̝͕̰̜̭̔̈̉͋̿̃́̊͝͝t̸͇͈͇̪̐͆̕͝,̷̪̬͓͚̖̱̹̗̟͉͖̤̳̋̈͌̾̂̅͠”̸̡̗̩͎̣͕̗̠̞̅̅̃͋̌͌̔̀͒̍͘͝ ̴͈͍͎̲̠̠̘̭͌̃͊͊̒͜͠h̴̢̧̲̝̪̬͈͇̘̤͍̾͐̈̋͜͜ë̴̢̛̹͉̬̝́̂͑͒͌͌̍̉̏̎̾̚͜ ̸̢̳͕̿̊ͅp̶̛̦̼̺̭̟͉͓͇͔̦̗̅̐̇̏͘͠ͅu̷̯͍̠̬͚̜͒l̴͍̘̰̩̰͖͌̒̊̽̈́͌̎̌͛̈̕͝l̶̛͎̠̗͓̥̖͇̥̤̑̂̀̋̎̓͗̕͠͠s̷̛͚̘̹͔̤̺͉̞͙̀̽̓͗͆̿̐̿̍͒ͅͅ ̵̡̍̿̓̓̅̄̄͛̓͗̐͆b̷̧̢͍̙̟̩͇̳͌̐͗̚͜o̷̭͇̙̒́̅̎t̶͓͚̞̮͖̲͙̫͎̲̙͔̐̑̀́̒̈́͋̄ͅh̸̡͔͈͈̞̭̼̘̲̝͌̄̏͐͗͗̃ ̸̮̪͌b̴͔̠̮̖̾̄͋ͅṟ̵̲̻̖̰̙̤͕̖͚͎̺͐̓͗͒̂͆̃̓ͅe̶͍̞͓͌͆̓̈͒͌́̽̏̆̏̉̆̆̚ą̸̣̯͎̳̥̝̩̻̩͗̔̓́ͅk̵̪͕̹͓̟͉͎̇̍̒̓͌̆̃̋͊̚ ̶̤̈́͛̓̆̌̓̌͝h̴̡̲̟̙̬̦̞̦͋̿͆̋̋̾̂͊͜a̸̢̢̘͔̠̰̤͓̖͙̪̜̽̂͗͑̒̈́͗̐͜ņ̸̖̯͈̭̝̱̥̳̣̰͓͎͗͑̒̑͒͂͋̒̿̎̓͊͝d̸̛̫̻̖͇͓̻̱̼̔̆̎͊̚͝ľ̸̢̨̛̤̥̟̫͉̪̻̓̽͆͐̐͑̽͝͝͠͝ͅe̸̘̼̮͖̥̦͖̔̆̄̈́̔͂̓͐͂̓̉̕͜s̴̛̘̺̼̮̠͙̼̤̥͛̋̀̈̆͜ ̶̧̦̠̭͖̝̻̝͍̙̓͑̌̚͝ͅa̶͓̥̓̚ͅn̶̨̛͓͇̥̯̦̝̜̞̞̣͙̼̈̌̎̽̑̃͑ď̴̺̒͒̑̄͌̇̊͆͠ ̸̨̧̱͓̩̻͇̠̗͚̎̌͊̍͜w̷̛͍͈̗̫̳̼̼̜̳̎̋̐̑͐̀̽͊̚͠a̶̮̫̘̿̃̍͛͂͌̚͠l̵̺̥̏̔͆͂͗̒̃̀̂̀̈́͌̄̕͘k̷̢̧͍̱͓̳͖̠̝̤̜̱͗́̈́̓͑̉͊̏͂͂͂͝͝ͅͅş̸̳̤̭̽̄̿͛͑͒ ̴̱͎̹̠̪̮̓̒̈̔͆̓͗̍̋͌̌ͅà̶͔̗̥͔̫̪͎̣̜͖̘̗̫̌̇̋̆̔͘͜͜w̵̛͈͎͙̮͑̍͛̋̀̽͐́̈́̅̿͠͝͠ǎ̵̻̤̭̀͊̐͝y̴̨̛͍̻̙̆̈́̔̃̐́͊̉͋̀ͅ ̸̡̧͖̭͇͛̾̃̾͌͛͆͗́̈̍̚a̵̙͎̦̳̟̞̟͇̲͙̯͈̝̿̈́ṇ̸̝̳̳̒̈d̷̡͚̰̤̖̬̖͙̥̺̞͖̪̳̖̈͂͒͊̎́͛̋͂͆͆̔̒ ̵̛͎͚͓̬̔̍̇̃̋̍͗͠g̸͇̗̦̟̹̀͆̊̍͠e̷̛̳̮͈̘̩͚͚͚̞͖̭̩̎͛͆͋̓͛̓͛̂̈́̏t̷̢̝̬͓͕̰͓̻̽̐s̸̢̨̩̻̮̘͍̘̞̗̩̏ͅ ̶̢̳̿̃̎̈̉͗͜ḿ̴̛̲̩̘͔̾̆͆̍̐ê̶̜̪̟̈́͆ ̵͈̌͂̂̇͛̕͠ặ̷̢̧̧̝͓̹̱̥̩̹͙̥̾̅̈́͑̐̚ ̸̨̳̜̖͇̭͚̰̫̦̠̬̠̣̈̚b̸̨̛̼̤̣̳̦͍̰̖̜͙͔͌́̑̿̾͘̚͘͝͝͝l̶̯̻͇̱̰͚̬̼̲̳̪̻͋̾̓̈͆͑̎̋̈̓̐͝ͅa̵̧̡̡̛̬͈̩͎͈̭̖̗̖͕̱͛̾͘͘n̵̨͇̤̰͎̥̓̈́͌͂̓͘k̵͈̰͙͈̈́è̵͓͎̠͙͓̣̳͕̜͆̒͋̐̆̊͑̒̌͜ͅţ̸̺̟̬͚̟͔̑͌̎̂̑͌͊͌͐̕͘͠͠.̶̢̗̥̘͇͔͎͙͚̩̜͕̤̆̔ͅ

̶̡̂̇͐̆̚W̴̛̟͌͆̌̔̽̐̔̆̔̉͘͠ͅó̵͍̮͖͓̰̺͈̙͇̄͊͘͜͠w̵̯̱͕̻̔͂̒͜,̵̗͓̤̻͍̱̊̉̊̒̒̋̿͛͜ ̸̫̠̙̖̳̗́̒̇̍̍̈̔̀̐͝ͅţ̵̧̨͖̳̘̦̺̗̟͙͔͚̆̓͗͋͌̎͒ͅh̵̡̤͔̰͈͖̓͐̈͜a̵̫͌̾̇̀͗̔̕͜ṇ̶̛̝̠͍̜̘̋̑̌̏͝ͅk̸̡̫̫̖̪̞̠̬͖̩̤̫̅̌͌̓͛̓ ̵̧̠͇͚͎̭̻̪̥̺͍͍̖̪̂̈́͒̈́̋͑̈́y̴̡̛̮͕̰̱̗̭̹͚̲͎̮̖̑̀́̉̎͑̇̏̋̅̋̊̕ǫ̴̨͕̥͉̙̳̺̝͚̽̏͛̃̓̽̉͜͠ŭ̶̬̞̩̳̞̎̂̈́̓̏̓͗͋͘̕͠.̸̻̰͙͎̼̻͉̪̭̣̬̩̞̍̍͝͝ͅͅ ̸͇̻͚͖̰̥͇͎̕ͅI̴̜̠̠͎͓̖͇̽̽͘ ̵̛̪̊̈̃́͘͘͘ṣ̶̡̡̡̲̲͇̥̼̹̙͌̓̉͋̈́̇͛̄͝ͅͅm̶̢̛̬̝̫̖̳͆̅̔̀̋̎̾͂̉̀̈̑̚i̴̡̨̨̫̟̫̳̹̖̽͆̊̾̓̅͒̌̓̇̂͆̌̊̃l̷͎̰̘͍͉̈́̒̑̈́̈͝ę̶͓̤͉̗̥͎̜̗͖̻̲͙͙͖̌͒̍͑̍͠.̷̞͓͉̬͓͙͍͂̽͗͛̍̚̕͘ͅ ̷̠͈͎̘͉̏̽̌͂͗́̚͠͠“̵̧̢̤̘̹͙͓́̌̑̂̋̆̀Y̵̝͎͈͚̾̌͗͊̃̓̔͐͝o̷̫̯̳̤̊̅͑͑̆͐̃͠u̴̳̪̖͒͑͗͗̊͊̽̓͐͊̒̓͘’̴̪̖̞͈̳̲͓̭͆͜͜r̴̨̺͇̞͔̜̐̚e̸̢̝͎̯̹̜͖̞͈̽͒̍̂̈́̂̄̑̋̈́̉͘͝͝ͅ ̶̢̢͖͖̻̰͆͗̑̇̏̏͗̍̋̎̈̉̚͜͝w̸̬͎̥̖̞͔̬̲̠͐̓̈̈́̏e̸̢̧̺̝̹̳̭̘̯̝̝̺̻͂͒̍́͜͝l̸̝̭̭͕͍͕̲͎̪̈́̎͠ͅc̴̙͖͙͉̮͕̼̞̜̻̣̘̃̀̅̆͠o̶̗̖͖͎̬̘͈͒̾̎̑̏m̵̩̠̉̈́̀̈̎̓͆̏̋͒̕̕͝ê̷͖̮̎̈́́̆͒̇̈́̑̑̏͐̒͠͝,̴̧̧̞͈̠̹͍̤̞̻͚͍̌̿͋̕ ̴̡̫̼̟̺̙͛͗̍̇̏͐̔̈́̕̚͝͠ͅN̷̢̥͔͚͉̙̘̬̰̺͓̠̠̬̊̈́̿̄̔̾̒̐̉̏̐͐͠ͅƠ̵̡̰͕̩̹͖̳̞͖̞̳͔̘̙̭͋̽̂͆̆͌̈̊̿̄͘͝ ̴̡̨̨͙̥͕̜̰͇͎͕͙̦͐̇͆͐̕͠͝Ò̴͓͉͖͖̬̠̟͂͊͆͑̈́̈́̊̇͌̚N̸̢̖̗̠͖̪̲̠̗͕̄̍̊̕͝Ë̷̟̝́̔̾͆̔̎̈́̑̅̐͒͘͝,̵̢̡̬̲̹͉͔̬̘̗̦̣̜̾̅̌̾̒̌͂͘ͅ”̶̭̗̪͔͍͔̝̣̤̘̙̯͛̆͑͌̓̏͗̇̆̅̎̿̄̓̚ ̵͎̥͔̜͙͇̼̤̊̄̓͠ͅa̷̧̬̺̝̮̤̺̻̭͙͂̍͊̄͐̿̔͝ ̴̻̗̠̦͉̙͙̳͕̣̗̱̼̘̈́͌̔̆̿̓̈͐͠t̷̨̬͕͇̻͈͎̩̾̅̓̊ǫ̸̼̗̯̺̝̩̣̬̩̫̂̾̈́͘͜ͅţ̸̯̥̫͐͊̒̆̏͛̊̚͘ẫ̷̙̗̆̊͝l̴̟̯͉̜͙̜̕l̷̨̝̱̐̂̀͑̔̕͠y̴̛͙̭̲̤̿̔̒̈̈́́͆͗͂̄̀ͅ ̵̘̠͚̯͙̹̬͓̟͒̿̾̐̀̄̓͌̀̅̆d̷̛̬͖͖̳̋̃̈́̃̌̔̋̽̄̅̿͊̀͠ǐ̶̪͍̘͈͙̣͐͗̾̍̉́͐̕f̴͙̬̙͚̒̚f̶̬̳̍̑͋̌̈́̾͆̓̿͐͒͘ͅe̷͚̙̻̥̣̲̰̲̱̔̈́̈́͌͌͗̈́̿ř̸̛̖̙͚͍͍͚̜̺̋ę̴̢̡̛̛͖̤̫̖̲͉͓̠̮͒́̓n̵̨̨͚̝̗̟͚͇͔̥̞̈̈́̊͆̎̓̎̋̃͌̃́̿͠t̶̛̓̽̋̄̿͐͛̚͜͜ ̷̮̒̋̿̃͋͗̊̐̚v̴̪͇͍̺̮̥̿͋̇͑̅̌̋͜ͅơ̴̢̨̩̮̥̰̘̺̆̋͊̈́̋͘͝ĭ̶̡̮͉͍̞͔͍̖̣̪̳̈́̓͒͐̊͐͛̔̿͆̚͝c̶̛̰̮͍̲̙͖̭̪̲̳͎̣̲̫͗̈̊̽̓̎͂̍͋̇͘͠e̸͕̗̞͑̾͋̋̂̐̚̚͠ ̸͉͖̭̫̦̭̹̝̪̜̻͔͈͛̋ͅţ̸̥̭̫̝̞̥͎̻̳̂̐̏a̷̢̯͉̜̼̘͔͇̬͕̪̬͂̾͊̔͐̈́̑̈́͛͘͜͝͠͠ĺ̷̗͓̖̪̫̞̊̔̽́̆̽̾̃͝k̵̛͙͉͇̜̖͕̎̈̅͑̑̒̈́͜͠͝͝ͅs̵͈͖͉͇͎̼̝̻̱̖͒͐͐̍̊́̅͐͘ ̴̡̪̻̜̙̪̝̟̜̤͍̖̞͔̓̋̆̉͜͠t̸̢̡̖͉̠͇͚̭͈̓͐̔̆o̵̘̊̈̌͗̋̋̐̎͝͠ ̶̈́͆̒͊̋̓̔͌͐̃͘̚ͅm̵̡̺͔̮̻̄͝͝e̷̪̋̇͘͜ ̴̞̼̻͎̉̄̄͊̂̃̒́̕̕̕ͅả̷̙̺͎̪͜͠ţ̵̫̻͇͙̬̤̺̯̘̰̐͜͝͝ ̵̬͈̑̅̎f̸̛̖̙̘̍̈́͛̃́͋̾͊͠͠à̵̛̜̽̋͐̉̽̓̀̇̅̓̍͝c̶͖̲̫̣͖̥̜̈͜ẻ̶̤̗̜̺̒̑͆̄͆ ̶̡̜̥͍͙̫̺͕̪͈̉̂̅̊̚͜ļ̷̜͇͕̤̣̈́͛͊̈́̊̄͘ę̷̡̧̩͉̻̮̀͊̇̃͗͛̐͜v̸̧̟̱̘͔͉͔͍̮̙̑e̵̫͍̙̞͗̽̿͑̆̾͘͝l̷̡͔̠͓̯̜͈̩̭̺̓́̈́͛̈́̐̋͂̈́̀͑ͅ.̶̨̛̠̥̙̝̣͕͇̳̠͕̍̈́̈̅̐̊̾ͅ ̶̢̢͚͖̭͖̙͔͇̬͕̼̻͙̞̉̄͑͆̑͌͊̅̋̂̌̕“̷̨̣͈̘̝͔̑̃̐͂͒̀̇̕Y̸̡̗̫͚̜͎̲͉̣̱͖͛̅̒̽͑͌̈́ȯ̶̜̲̳͔͕̠̹̱̝͙͑͒̿͆̀͆ų̴̢̣̟̪̙̙͕͓̳͗ ̶̦̝̯͎̝͎̍͛̀̃d̵̨̯͙͎̚ô̶̢̡͎̞̺̮͓̘̪̝̚͜ͅn̴̡̙̲̘̯͚̖̗̻̫̉̔̆̑̀͒̇̄̋̀̏̍̎͠͝’̶̨̨͖͇̘͍͙̈̇̊͑͠t̶̛̛͍̩̳̜͎̲̩̼͇͙̰̣͖̬͐͆̄̅̌̓͋̏̋̓̚̕̚ͅ ̶̨̧̛̰̬͉͕̟͖̼͉̒͐̇͋̈́̌͛͒̕͠ͅͅn̴̩͇̗͎̤̔̑͒̎̉͘̚͝͠ȇ̶̢̧̦͉̘͎͚̥͙̪͔̘̺͎͋̇͒̏̀̈͜e̷̢͇͚̪̍̌͊͊̀̓͑̀̓̿̇ḑ̴̡͉̝̝͔̬̺̣̱̺͔̠̭̅͊͌̆͆̇̈̈́̓̂̚̚ ̸̮̭̮̙̞͖̰̎͊̓͝͝t̸̨͓̤̬̭̜̲̮͉̰̪̰̿̇̈̔̃̔̄́̕ở̸̰̅̋̐͛̉͐̈́͒̏̚̚͠ ̷̙͚̝̰̩̦̜͉̘̬̌̋̊̃̐̽̀̏̏͜ͅl̴̰͌̌͑̑̎ë̸̡̘̏̍̓̄͋̆͑̾̀̕a̸͎̦̥͓̼͈̣̞̭̞̩̙̺̣̓̃̌̈̊͘̚n̷̲͉̄̀̐̋͊͛̎̒͒̀̃̔͝͝ ̷̧̢̳̠̳̟͈͓̤̰̺̺͇̱̲̽̏̋̀̄̈̈́͝ď̷̨͉͂̐̎̉ő̵̪͚̲̼̳̳̞̹̖̗͌̈́͆͌̈́̇̂͂͆̀w̸̩̌͂̒̔̎͐̊̂̾̃̊̕͝n̴̡̢̛̼̲̻̱̜̗̳̱̳̳͙̓̃̓̌̅͗͌̑͑ͅ ̴̣̺̰͎̮͇̻͐̐͑̃̆͐̐̒͊̈́́̄̄͗͝t̶̹̞̱̟͋̒̃̈́́̚̚͜ȯ̵͈̽̒̈́ ̸̡͈̫͔̲̖̩͉̫̮͇͆̓̔̚͠m̸̧͇̮̠͙̬͖̹̙̊̀̓͆̑̈̾̄͘͘͝ͅę̶̨̲̣͚̫̖̫͔̼̘͓͓̥̖̏͝,̶̧̧̛̹͔̖̗̙̬͚̬͇̤̦͉̈̎̾̏̄͌͊̈́̓̋͘̕͝ͅ”̴̝̊͊̐̓̐ ̸̧̦̹̹̱͉͆͆͗͂͠I̵͙̘͆ ̶̘͉̇͆̊̏̐͝s̷̘̼̙̟̤̄̃̃̃̓a̶̡̳͎̖̦̖͈͎̖͓̞̗͋̄ȳ̴̧̳̻͚̬͇͈̥̻̣̗̰̊͑͝.̷̛̟͈̟͒́ ̵͎̹͔̞̬̬̰̬̱̩̪̘̂̉͝ͅ“̵̛̛͔̫̤͍͌̒͆̓̑͗̽̆̽͘͘͠O̴̢̨̤̮͓̻͍̞̯̘̺͇̘̱͂̓̇̈̉͜͝h̴̝̘͓̼̹̋̇̽,̴̧̰̼̺̗̞̂̅͌̎̉̇͝ ̵̩̏̽̏̿̊̚I̸̡̜̟̠͈̬̯̳̲̖͎̪̮͗́ ̷̢̫̗̦̤̦̰̺͛̏̍̋̂̔̐̈́̏̿̅ď̵̢̲͕̬̰͇̤̙̦ȯ̴̡̮̟͍̰̝̹͂͋̆̈́̿͐̐̂̉̒̑̕͠n̶͓̣̝̭̖̮̰͖̂́̊̓̃̔̾̓̚̕’̶̨̰̳͑̃̽̀̏̆̑̅̾̚͘̕͝ṫ̵̟̠̤̼̗̼̤̻͕͈͔̖̰̣̎̄̿̈͆͒͒̉͗͝ͅ ̵̘̰̹̜̙̭͆ͅh̵̢̛̗̱͍̪̱̑̈̂̀͋͑͛͌̈́̌̾̓̓͠ã̵̡̧̲̞̹͇̞̭͕̜̙̤͚̆͌̍̅̓͆̊̏͆͛̅̈́͠ͅͅv̶̛͇̭̥͉̻̝͈̟̜̐̽̏͜ḙ̸͌͌̏̇̌̓̅̂͊̏̓̐͘͝͝ ̸̖̱͈̱̠͉͈͙̟͌̐̆̌̔̒̃͘̚͘t̶̨̝̭͈̟̙͈̱͍̦̺͕̭̍̄͒̈̂̓́͗̾̎ŏ̸̪͙̠̲̩̼̩̤̈̆̃̎͠͝.̴̛͎͔̩̗͈͛̐̂͘ ̷̜͠W̶̢̡̗̦̱͍̬͖̋͐̄̆̒̓͛͑̽̔̚͠ͅe̵̝̘̲̭̩̥̼̎̅̔̏͋̑̎̓̂̕͝ ̷̨̨̖̥̤̹̼̘͎̗̺̟̍̓̂̍̐̅̓̽̈́͒̎̎̂ͅa̵̜͈̟͎̣̬̤̪̋̉͑̔̉̚r̸͕̤̞̜͋̔̂̄̄ȩ̶̛̼͓̘̗͇̝̹͕̿̊̀̓́͌̔̐͜ ̷͈͕͇͈̤̠͙͚͆̑͂̽̿̽̐͆͌̚͘͝ḯ̷̡̢̧̛͙̱̣͖͓̺̏̑̾̂̚͘n̴̨̨̨͚̯̬̥̲̞̥̼͋̊̎̌͘ ̸̢̳̪͈̗̯̮̰̻̤̻̫͕̙̩̌̏ṯ̸̌͒̾h̴̢̛͕̭̤̥͌̽̓̚ẹ̸̢͍̘͇̠̜̹̦͍̞̔͐̆̆̇ ̶̢̧̛̟̺̖̘͙̮̲͉̝̆̑̑͋͆̕ͅs̵̛͓̯̯̗̥͌̿̿͌̒̌̐̊̔̚a̸̢͓͚͒̓̏̏̍͐̆̈́m̸̠͕̦͉̻̥̥̅͝ẻ̴͙̲͚͙͉̦̖̥̜͈͙̉̏̈́͑̉͜ ̴̗͓̹͌ḃ̵̛̯̻͚̕ơ̴͓̱̟̖͋͂̌̌͝á̴̩͔͉̦͖̞̫̠͛͒̃ţ̵̘̮͍̦̺̹̫̼̞̙̟̱̈́͗͆̃͜ͅ,̴̩̳̅͗̈́͒̽ͅ”̶͎͚͍͇͈͚̼̗̩̳̺͙͎͈̹͗̿ ̴̧̲̲̣̪͒̏͊͋̈́͝͝t̴̡̮̬̪̟̼̘͔͉̻̞̺͕̉̍͛̃ͅh̸͖̙̱̼̣̭̱̹͓̻̹̣̬͓̃̈͑̍͑͐̇͛̕͠e̷̜̯̱͇̬̱̪̙͖͕̰̜͎̼̜̔̇̓̇̍̽̓͗̔͑͘͘͝͝ ̸̛͓̖̖͔̉̍͛͑̒́̒̄̉̚͝d̴̢̨̨͖̝̳̪̱̝̱̖̰͛̿̏͑͂̿̈̐͆͜͝ͅû̵͓̿̿̐̔̿͌̍͐̾ḑ̴̨̮̼̯͎̰̮͖̮̺͓͇͋͋ȩ̸͕̫̪̻̦̬̐͛̈́͑̓̎̎͗̆̊̌̄͝ͅ ̵̠̞̦͊̿͑l̶͇͚̣̞̺̣̻̤̃̀̒̏̈̎̈͐̑̈́͒͗̕͜͠ȃ̶̖̺̰̓̕͜͠͝ư̸̜̥̩͌͐̈̉̕͘ͅg̸̡̣̱͖̗͔͎̘̥͓̖̼̺̔ͅh̷̡̳̝͕͓͍͖̺͚̞̳̩̜̟̱̐̃͒̿͊͘̕s̶̫̒̋͛͊͆̌̓͛̉̽̀̄.̷̹͙͈̍̃̎̍̃̀ ̷̢̢͇̬̮͙̮̳̰̠͕͍͈̟̈́̓̉͘“̷̢̢̪͕̍̄I̵̞̱̪͛ ̸̨̢̢̨̢͈͔̝̖̪̦͓̗͊̅̊̒͗̕h̷̡̢̨̼̲̫͎̘̜̼̣͑͐̽͆̽̊̾̑̈́̓́̋͛͝e̷̡̹̪͍̖̣̯̝̳̫̳̩̜̊̓̈ḁ̴̠̟͎̣͔̿͂̊͛̅̓̕͝͝͠r̶̛̛̙͔̣̲̲̰̘̘̗̭̜̦̉̃͆͂͂̃̿̇̆͌͘̚͝ͅd̵̛̤̙̹̲̲͉̜̿̀͂̓̐̃̒͌̑͠ͅ’̴̧̲̩̘̺͚͉̥̀͂̓͜͝ͅy̸̹̣̱͎̝͔̥͉̼͜͠a̸̢͎̼̥̗̘̪̦̰̪̟͚̿͛̾͆̏̕̕ ̷͎̑b̶̢͎͖̊ȯ̴͍̙̯͙̜̻͓̅̾̏̒͗̐͌͑̿͊̕͠t̶̢̰͔̙̳̹̲̗̓̕͝h̴̨̢̢̨̗̙̞̗͉̝̙͚̳̓̏͛͐̿̌͑̅́͛̊̃ ̴̲̈́̾̋͆̃̾̑̽̑̈́̕͝t̷̢̨͓̤̺̪̳͖̩̪̟͒̅̈́̇̇̉̍̇̌̚͜͠ą̸͔͇̫͉̮̰̗̻͕̪̫́̈̈́̇̂͒̆̄̄͘͝͝͝l̴̨͑̎̅͗̆̓̒̕̚͘͠͠͝k̸̝̳̣̻̄̃̄͂̓̿̿͑͗͂i̷̩͓̖̮͙̭̩̫͐̑̀̇͌͒̄͝ͅñ̷̤͍̃̒̅̊̐̾̓̔̃͊͒̂’̴̢̰͕͓̳͙͕̦̈́̄́͒̋̉͌͊̃̚͠.̸̛̝̜̫̈͊̏̇̒̿͝͠͝ ̶̡̨͕͇͈͖̹̳͗͜G̸͎͕̫̙̝̩̺̹̓́͋̏̚͝o̷̡͉͖̜̝͔͑̃̿̾̍̑͋͋̍͒̿ṇ̵̨̞̥͛̈́̈́́͆͒̆̈́̾͘͝ͅn̷̩͉̉ǎ̵̟̙͚ ̷̢̢̟̘̪͙̠͎̰̟̠͎̃͐̈̃͘h̶̛̙͍̩̍̾̄̑̆̂̃̏̇̈́̆͘ë̸̡̠̮̞̩̺͓̻̜̑̊̐͌̓̔̏̀̋̈́̇̒͑͝à̷̗̈́̉͂̇͠d̵̠̘̝̤̽͋̾̏̿͛͑̈̐͊͘ ̵̧̢̮̱̦͖̙̙̳̩̳̥̑͑͐͆͛͂͆̈́͐̐͒͊̎ơ̴̼͇̮̗͙̿ͅu̸͔̞̟̹͇̩̹͔̟͓̞̳͗͆͊̆͌͌ṱ̵̜̪̺̝̠͔̬͖̼̮͇͕̺̼̋͒͑̒͠s̶̲̝̰͔̘̪͑͑̐͒̕̕̚i̵̢̹̲̝̖͚͎̣̰̙̺̐͐̿͒̅̔̏̚͜d̷̡̹̬̠͔̜̦̣͇̦̞̎͌͋̓͜ͅẻ̴̞̝̟̺͆̿̒͂͒̏̈́̉̈ ̴̡̰̮̖͈͔͈̻͔͓̰̔͊̏̄͐̊̑͋͘͘͝ş̴̧̬̜͚̠̪͈̦̮̙̬̲͍̙̓̎̈́́̔̚m̶̺̺̥͚̹̤̼̽͆̑͋̽̀̍̌̑̆͝ͅờ̷̢̛͚̝̟̦̙̘̝̤̞̰͔̓̆̌̑̑̔̑ͅk̸̞̩̪͎̦̺̻̔͋̽̈́̄̕’̸̼̳͈̈́̋̃̑́̎ͅň̶̼̬͓̭͚̩̼͊̃̐̈́͊͜͠ͅ.̴̜̪̮̟̝̏̃͌̇̀̈͠͠ ̴̙̻͔̩̪̻͚͋̉̅̏̀̔͐͋̚ͅN̵͔̮͉̳̬̼̘̻̤͓̩͇̝̬̤̔͠͝a̶̝̟̦̬̝̜̖͎̓̽̂̓͛̅͒̒͌͛̅͘͝ͅm̴̛̤̆̊̂̏̓̌̑͒̅̚͠͝e̷̛̯̺̻͍͖͓̜̮̒͗͑̄̾̽͌̌̆’̵̢̧͕̯̪͎̮̭͙͉̟̟̅̕̚͜ş̶̮͉̗̖͉͉̏̀̒̂̍ ̴͚̭͉̦͇͎̩̰̊̿̒͂͐̌͝ṟ̷̨̳̯̔̆͆̿̊ĕ̵̛͓͈̘̳̗̮͈̘̟̓̾͐̑͌͜v̶̢̯̫͕͕̱̹̞̤̜̂è̷̛̩̣͍͎͍̐͋̈͌̔͊͊n̴̢͔͉͈̠̪͓̦͍̩̲̜̖̩͈̈́̂̐̏͆̈́͠g̷̙̤̠̙͎̫̪̯̣̻̥̟̒̾̍̎̅͝͝ė̵̮͈̲͗̾͆̉͗̀̀̉̓͐̂,̸̥̫̪͔̫̖͚̜͍̖̲̲̭̠͛͛͜”̸̣̲͉̤̻̳̘͎͒̎͑̾̌̃̓ ̷̨̧͈͚̟͔̦̜̟̫̯̅̋̄̔̈́̂̊͑͗̓̈́͜ͅh̴̢̰͎̱̣̟̦͉̹̊͆̒e̷̢̘͔̮͈͉̺͕̒͑̃͜ ̸͍̻̼̮̳̖̰̰͎̤̾ͅr̷̻͇̍̊̆̓͒̂͛o̷̧̟̪͎͇͙̟̱̟̯̲͉͂̎̀͝l̵̛̫̼̭̖̼̃̑͋̓̓̔̓̃̒l̸͇͇̱̩͚̺͛̓́̆̚s̷̡̛̯̤̦̮͖͙͓̖͍̘̞̒̀͛͐͆̆͑͜ͅͅ ̸̥̰̰͈̼̙̈̽̄̈͆͗̋̔̑͜o̴̡̧̭̜̼̹͔͎̝͕͓̰͇͛̈́̚͠f̷̨̨̡̥̭͚̭͈̙̲̣̉̒͆̌͋̿͛̋̀͝f̷̛̮͇͔͋̎̐͒̿̃̈́̒.̴̡̡͙̱̲͚̻͎̫̦̝̗͇̈́̔͂͋̾̉̀͗̒͊͘͜͠ ̷̡̡̨̰̖͉͍̲̱̣̫̄̎͑̓̕Ḯ̸͉̰̗̣̱̘̪̝̪̪͉͊̄̈́͜͝ ̴̖̯͇͇͔͎̙̜̝̤̬̏̋̈̑̊̓͊̂̃̏̃̍͝ͅr̶͉̜̩̙̱̤͌͜ͅe̸̡̛̻̟͖̭͎͖̐͛̏̍̀͛̐͗͛͒͌͒m̶̧̧̼͚͚̪̘̭̹̱͊e̵̡̢̯͔̩̰̜̩͇̪͔̙̬̩͕̎m̸̛̠̼̪̘͍̙͙̤͕̓̇̒̿̅̀͌͐͌̉̇̈́̈́͜͝b̵̢̢̗̭͚͚̜̗̯̤͔͎̣̐̾̃é̴͔͕̱̱͎̰̺͖̞̐̽͂̈́̍͝͠r̶̢̛͇̈́͂͗͛͛̚͘ ̴̧̡̦͇̮̠͈̱̬͈̤̮̽ơ̸̧̛̦̮̹͔̪̠̾͗̎̅̾̅̂͗̕͜͠ǹ̴̳͖̭̬̅̆̔͋͌̅̇̈̚ḝ̷̨̘̙̤͎̭̹͕̀͗̊̈́͒̌̕̚ ̵̨̛̲̪̝̯͑͆̈́͑̿̎͐̈́̓̔̉̋̍͐ȩ̸̢̳͈̘͚̘̣̤̳̥̠̮̺̣̏l̷̡̲̫͎̯̘̓͐̍̃̔̍̓̔̇̉d̸̨̨͖̜͓̜̘̣̫͙̬͙̬̖̏͝ȩ̷̟̣̻̹̬̣̬̞̈́͆̓r̸̦͍̼̩̪̥̬̭͉̈́̓̍̐͂̂̆̈́̏̚͘ĺ̵̡͈̯̻̮̥͈̘̮͕̼̍͌̿̆̓̈́̾̚͝y̷̡̛̞̻̔͛͊̋̇̈́̚͘ ̷̧̨̡̘̦̮͍͚̥̝̮̭͂̉̋̽̿́̓͛̀͛͐̂̐͘͜l̷͕̤̰̲̣̳̈́̐̊́̎̎͐̅̀̑͠͝͝͠ó̴̢̢̢͙͇͔̖͇̗͕̒̂̏͂̐̀̒͝ớ̶̙̲̰̼͉̤̙̭̋͋̓̋̔̎̊͝ͅͅk̵̢̤͉̻̲̏̉̌̈́̇̐͐̋͗̎̕͘ĭ̶̡̦̝͙̮̠̣̗͙̙ͅͅn̶̦̖͓͉̟͓̤̦̳͐̔g̴̨̗͇̖̰̝͒̅̇̾̈̋̆̇͌ ̴̢͙̥͖͈̼̬̗͈̆ǧ̸̰̳ų̴̧̡̡͈͙͙͈͇͍̣͇̤̓̓̋y̸͇͙̝͊̍̿̿̀̎̈́͋̇̅ ̸̢̲̝͉̮̟͉̬͕͎͑͆̃̔̉̔̈́̉̍̂͑͒̉̚͠į̶̦̣̜͖̦̙̘̩͙͉̬̟͔̂͗̒̇̒̾́̏̋͜n̸̛̟̥̘̫̄͆̍̈́̎ ̸̢̡̠̙͇̻̟̣͔̗̰̙̿̀ḁ̴̢̣̠̠͇̥̭̓́͛̕͝ ̶͇̣̝̬̜̺̭̪͓̥̅͋̃̍̿͆͋̔͜ẃ̸̢̡̢͎͎̥͉͙̙͙̍͌͛͗̇̇ḧ̸̛̭̟͚̣̥͙͉̟̮͇̖͚̼̦́̌̈̊́́̆͆̊̉̆͊͆e̸̩̰̭͑̾̚ĕ̶̡̨͙̞͖̰̽̂͆̑̅̌͜͝l̵̢̛̫̳̰͕̭c̶̡̢̥̭̖͕͕̹͚̜̥͗̂̔̓̊h̴̰̄̈́͐̉̚ả̸̢͍̟͎̘̲̳̱̘̓̍̾̽̈́̌̃̓̍͋̚͜ͅḯ̷̪̜̰̭̫̘̭̯͉̪͙̤͖̎͋̿̎̆̈ȑ̸̰̞̘̬͓͎̳̄͑̈́͑̚.̴̢̛̖̻͔̠͚͔̻͕̯͛̽̽̍̾͝͝ ̷̣̘̪̗̙͎͊̿̎́̈́̉͂̾̉̃Ẅ̸̟͍̯̼̱̩̆̇̏͐ả̸̖͖̰̮̫̼͒̃͂͐͆̈́̀̑̽͘͠s̶̢̻͈͙̞̄̐̆͆̌̐͘ ̴̠͍͈̅͑̀̿̈́̉̐̋̊̽̎̕t̷͚͈̎h̷̯͚͎̯̥͖̻̄͗͑͝ą̸̱̟͉̭̘͖̦̠͔̲̙̝́͆̈́͑̔̄̚͝͠t̶̢͉͈̝͉̪̲̘̗̦̅͗͋͛̓̽̓̅̓̍͛̌̕͝͝ ̵̡͔͔̗̳͉̥̝͖̼̟͕̱̽̏̓̈́h̶̩̐͌̒̽͋ͅi̴͚̥̮̭͕̬͍̖̠͌̈́̉̉̐͜͜͠ͅm̴̩͆̇͌͗̄̃̾̕̕?̵̢̧̛̣͖̪͇̺͇̱̐͑̌̓̿̈̈́̓͜

̸̟̗̮̠̪̗̝̪͈̦̤̟͇̾̑͠͝ͅ“̷̫͎̭̬̦͉͔̩̫̓̑̃͗ͅǪ̷̘̱͉͚̖̦̤͍̠̹̂͊̈́̉̐̈́͊̃̉̑̇̾́̌̕ẖ̷̢̟̗̥̲͓̯͓̪̱̊͋̑ͅ,̷̳̯̝̠̰̒̈́̂̏̒͜ͅ ̶̡̯̩̪̣͕͓͖͖̍̅̌̏̈́̾̂̏̉̄̍͂̚͝w̴̧̬̗̬̜̞͕͕̯̬͙̠̬̆̋̑̽͆̃̎̅̆̕͝ḩ̷̛̹͍͕͇̹̺̞͔̠̬̪̙̓̊͆̓̓̈͆̂͝͝e̵̥̥͓̣̫̳̍̉ͅr̸̮̋̆̓̽͋̊́̒̈̈́̃̊͝ę̷͍̼̝̗̖̹̱̞̱̞͙̰̱̟̔̈́͑̇͘ ̵̼̺̹̤̤̱̒̅d̵̛͈͈̖͚̘̼͕̟͇̦͓̜̻̓͆̂͛̾͜͝ͅi̷̛̟͊̊͆́̔̓̽̾̅d̴̨̡̬͇͕̮͔̹̙̞̈́̑̔̈̀͂̈̎͋̉̄͘̕͠ͅ ̸̢͍̫͇̮̹͓̓̓͒̇̽͒̑̀͘͜ͅỹ̵̡̛̖̭͙̤̭͓͎͖̳̪̦̿̂̓͆̒̓͜ͅo̶̡̯͍̥͋̈͂͛̉͒̍̋͌̕͘̕̚u̵̡̬͕͍̗͌ ̶̢̡͈̘͖̦̤̬̳̲̜͈̙͘͜g̷̨̨̝̱̞͉͆̌̂̃͋̽̚̚͘e̸̬̱͓̪̽͐t̷͖̼̞̣͚͕̱̦̙̹̊ ̶̧̤̦̗̯̳͍̹̹̥̹͋̂̒̑̆͋͒̅͑̃̈́̏̇͠t̷̥̺̻̂̆̔̂̏̒͑͐̽̎͐̆h̸̡͂̌̋̾͘a̶̡̺̹̝̥̻̞̮̭͉̘̦͗̎̆̋͌̎̚͠͝t̷̗̙͎͖̪͚͇̜̬͖̊̿͐̆͊͋̇̅͑͜ ̷̨̧̝̭̙̬̘̳̉͒̈́̓͂̂͋̓̓̽̈́̄͝f̴͕̞̯͕͑͐͛̓͌̾͠r̴͚͉̝̫̱͕̪͍̞͖̩̳̓̑̾̓̋̿̋̽̉̊̎͠͝ơ̵̟̭̥͖̗͆̉͐̄̈́͒͜m̶̜̻͈͙̣̱̗̤̹̌̋͗͒̊?̸͍̘͎̎̔̈́͛̈́̾̑̎̓͛̏̉́͘”̴͖͎̘͂͋͘͠ ̸͍̗͎̫͍̰̰̒̎̽̿͐̓͌̕E̴̡̢̤͖̤̖̤̤͖̼͎̩̖̤̐̓͑̅̉̕r̵͙͚̭̼̓͆̊̈́̕͘̚͜i̷̛̻̼͚̓̆͌͌̆̕c̸̢̛̛̛̰̝͇̭̞͙̩̘̐̿̀͐̎̚͠͠ͅ ̸̛̺̍̉̋̂̂̽̔p̸͙̬̟̺̪͙̃͛͗̉̾͆ų̴̡̟̱͖̝̹̳̣̆̍̔͘͠͝ͅt̸͖̠̟̖̙̟̮̻̮̿̑̓̇͆̀͊̌ͅs̵̢͙̖̟̜̰̖̰̠̙̞̺̝̼̔ͅ ̶͈̎̋̑̾͆́͆̕ǎ̸̡̲͉̹͉͎͖̻͇̰̬̹̙̣̂̾́͂̎̒̃̇̍̕͝͝ͅn̶͍̼̟̼̝̘͈̝̺̏̈́͠ò̶̡̘͔͈̪͈̑͑͒̇́̑̒͐̌̐͘ṱ̷̻̪͚̲͌͊h̶̛̛̹̫̟͚̲͙̩̞͚͐̊̒̋͊͋̅̈͂͝ȩ̸̧̳͖̭̮͉̼̥̤̈́͛̅̈́̎̉̈́̋͛̔̋͋͘͠ͅr̶̨̢̧͈̬̺̰̞̠͚̝̥̙͙͌̎̀̓̆̕ ̶̘̓̇b̸̢̛̰̦̩͕̳͍̩̮̺̦̤̮̘̉̌͑̏͑̕l̷̡̥̙̭̮̭̰͙͚͓̖͒̔͒͘a̶̧̨̠̪̦̰͙̫̍̑́̽̑͜ͅn̴͚̮̫̮͇̻̓͋̑̇̚͝k̷̼̖̦̟͖͙͖͑e̶̟̠̣̋̿̄̌̏̉̐̕ţ̸͓̞͖̦̥̙̥̖͖̙̘̑͂͒̿ ̵̢̛̥̈́͗͛̈̿̄͝͠ǫ̶͇͈̯̟̀̍n̵̫̳͂̈́͌̕ ̸̟̰̼̥̗̰͂̓͂̓̑̃͗̾̃̔͑͝͝m̶͙̺̫͚͇̼͘͜ÿ̵̧̭̘̪̳́̇̒̓͋̃̕͘ͅ ̸̨̛̪̗͕̞͊͗̃̐̓͛͌͛a̸͖̯͋r̵̨̯͕̯͍͇̯͇̣̞͎̤̀̈́̎̓̆̚ͅm̵̡͕̱̣͈̉̊͌͋͐͜r̵̛̙͕̱̪̯̹̳̋̈͊̏͌͋̄̄̑̆͜͜ę̷͕͔͉̏̒͂̇̉͒̔̍̊̒̊̔͊̊͝s̷̤̺͐͂̔̌̒͌͆͝t̸̛̜̰͎̞͉̠̺̗̺̩̮̪̱͍̍ͅ.̴̡͔͍̠͚̪͋̓͒̐̓͗̒͜ ̴̢̛̘̱̎͛̒͐̐͗̇̊̏̏̃͐͝“̶͔͉̙͔͙̖̺̍̉̑̿̀̋̀͌̽́͠W̶̨̠̰͙͙̖̠̜̣̩͌͘e̶̛̯͍̪̗̘̟͉̖̦͕̥̾̇̒͆̐͒̒̑̅̉̋͠ḷ̴̥̻̣͚̟̬̣̼̭̐̏̓̌̓͆̾̃͐͘͠l̴̝̦̯͕͙̞̲̥̔̃̂̐̓̏̇̕͝͝,̴̨͌̈́̓͗̈́͒̿̑͑ͅ ̵̗̃̈̓̏̅͗̂̐͒̅̄̎͠ș̸̨̼̥͕̬̯̎͌̂͐͐̿̂͐̆͆̏͂̌ͅo̵̠̺̥̮͚̺͊̈͆ͅm̸̼̄̕e̷̯̭̬͒͌̒̈́̓̓̇̉͂͑͑̈́̕͝o̴̜̬̥͉̫̟̩̓̋n̴̢̥̩̪̗̭̬͙̠̘̈̀e̶̘̺̹̺͋̋͌͑̔ ̶͎̦̟͇͉̜͎̘̫͍̩͖̣̍͑̃͒͋̈͊͆̒͌e̷̛̛̯͔̦̼̽̔̓̈́̀̓̏́̉̇l̵͙̣̘͗̽̍̌̒̑͂̂̂͒͛̈́̕͠s̴̡̢̛͇̲̙̠̀͐̇̇̋̈́͂̀̅̋͘͜͝͝ę̴͚͖̳̪͎̫̙̹͓͖̳̭̮̻̏̀̀̀͑̍͋̎͘͠ ̶̛̙̥̩͇̻͎͓̥̂̇͛̈̃̚͝w̵̠̝̖̯̃̃̓͂͂̌͠ã̸̡̘̬̣͖̥͓͓̤̦͇̪̈́̒͂̒̓͋̐̏͛͑̍͌͝ŝ̸͔̲̲̘͖̳͛͜ ̷̡̢̛̱̳͕̰̫̺̻̋͑̈͛̆̃͒̒̈́͋̈́f̷̧̨̡̘̱̳̞̪͚͓̹̯̺̂̍͋̍̿̈͛͘̚ā̴͚̳͍͇̼͓͖̉̔s̵̡̡̰̹̥̪̯̲̞̹͔͈̑͗͜͜t̴͉̩̻̙͓̺̞̖̞̃͛͛͝e̸̝͚̹̻͕̮̩̗̺͛̍̕ͅr̸̨̄̉̄̌̓̈́͑̅̚͠ ̸̧̢͚̣͆̅̀̈ẗ̵̨̯͕̰̯͙̼̹̮̝͈̝̖̦̆͗͜h̶̲̭͐̈́͆̋â̴̛̩̯̭͍̋ͅn̸̢̛̙͇͙̭̼̥̍͑͊͋̕͝ ̶̹̌͋͐̋̎ý̵̨̺͚̜͉͎̠̏̈̋̄̕͜͜o̸̟͚̭͔̽̏͛̈̐̈́̋͌̊̆͝ù̷͎͇̬̃̓̋̕͠ͅ,̴̛̣̟͓̲͉̤̭̞̹̺̙͍̮̲̝̃̅͛̅͊̃́̓̚͝͝”̷̫̣̱́͑͝ ̸̡̭̰͔̘̳̹̟̭͔̞̱̭͇̈̒̃̾̾̀ͅI̵͖̼̲̺̗͎̞̹̪̣̔̾̾̃̎̐̀̿ ̸̧̠̮̲͙͈̜̤̩̺̠̪͈̦̟̾͒̎̅̄͠l̷̰̎̔̃̂͠o̴̹̺̣̰̠̫̾̾̐̌͆͒̑̽̓͝o̶̡̹̲̥̯͕̲̍̑̂͗̆̆̄̚͜ͅͅk̴̼̟̿ ̴̮̳̅̎̓̂̈́̑u̷͍̙̩̠̠̮̝͚̫̬̫͓̠͓͛̊͑͗͊͆͒̓͊̇̓͌̽͝p̶̺̹͇̠͉̒͂̄̍̉̃̃̕͘ ̷̛̬͙̘̝̜̖̤͓̭͚̉̈́̈́̆́̈́̓̈́͂̕͝ͅţ̸̜̲̜́͋̏̏ơ̵̢̬̗͓͉̲͔͍̱̜̓̈́̈́̊̂̍̕ ̶̱͂̆̄͝h̴̳̲̻̯̺͉̰̤͕͊̅̂̇͂̋̄͋̽̍̆͊͐̒̅i̶̧̜̮͈͔̜̖̘͉̼̼͈͆́̓̈́̾́̋̕͘ͅm̷̡̡̧͙̺̟̙͎̞̜̹̳͙̣̉̃̃̾̂̃̊̅̃̈́͝.̷̼͌́ ̵̡̛͈̤̭̟͙͇͓̔̿̋̏͆̓̒̔̆̋͝“̵̢̢̡̥̼̝̬̟̦͚͈̗͈͔̽̾̍̚O̷̡̧̨͖͇͇̩̩̬̝̖͙͋̈́̄͜ͅk̶̛̭̜̯̰̙̞̠̎̓̃̑̒̈́͋̃͗͐͝ͅä̴͎͓͔̿̔͆ͅy̷̢̗̥͖͈̦̥̹̤̫̖͚̱̖̓̈́̊̔̔̃,̶̨̧͔̟̲̞̳̭̜͋̃̈́͜ ̸̢̢̨̙̬̟͔̪̺͔͙̩̃̎̾̀̇͆͝b̴̨̡̧͉̻̺̠̺͍́́͗̋̌̆͐̕͜͝ẻ̷̡̛͚̟͙̪̪͕͍̘̖̭̞́̈̇͑̃͗͒͜͝ ̷̨̢̨̡͓͎͇̟̪̬̜̆͗̄r̷̨͎̥̲̟̝͍̅i̴̫̟̪͚̖̬̳̩̯͓̰̰͆͑͑̐̌̏͠ͅģ̴͍̭̻̓̑͛̍͘h̸̢̹̦̱͈̲̖̠͇͉̠̮͎͆̈́̚t̵̡̨̯̜̮͕̜̪̠̦͎̬̘̽̾̍̓͛͗̐̌̒͘͠͝ͅ ̸͔̣̀͐̉̉̍͋̇̃́̋̚͝b̷͎̭͍̮̺́̄̊͋͑͂́͑͐̕͘͝a̸̡̧̠̖̠̮͚̓͊̾̓̑̇̄̒c̶̪̣̣͉̪͇͗̒̄̂̽̈́̒͑̑̂̋̚̚̚͜k̵͖͎̳̒̐,̶͍͕͇̙͓̺̜̙̐̊̈͐̐̄͘”̴̢͕͔̗̥̳̹͕̻͗̍̆̽̃̐ ̸̧̨̙͙̮̇̑̽̂̄̓̄̌͂̈͛̏̚͜h̷̦̤̥̼͓͗̽̃͗̏̔͒̄͂̈̈́̉̎̍͝e̶̢̹̤̦̲̫͚̼̹̠͍̙͛̈́̏̏̌̍́̇̌̿̅͝ ̵̢̥͖̹̼̿̈́̈́̇̒ļ̸̬̫̙͍͍͉̌e̵̡̧̛̪͉͚̻̰̗̪͖̫̞̯͒́̏̓̍͑̒͘̕͝a̸͔͔̪̤̠̱̝̦͐̏̈́͜v̵̡̡̺̗͈͖̈́͐̇͆̈̀̈́̿̈́̒͐̐ẹ̶̹̜̦͇͔̭̥͖͓̻̮̖̅̄̔̓͒̄̄̈ͅş̴̱͒̀̿͒ ̴̢̦͓͈̠̻̗̲̙̣̹̯̙̘̒̑́̀ͅm̸͙̩͍̠̹̻̘̪̲̊̕ë̴̢͍̼̦̱̗̝͉̬̪̙́ ̴̧̢̛̺̤͈̖͓̳̠̠̯͈̯̃̌̔́̓̿͐͒̀́͝a̶̢͇͙̭̞̠͔̖͎̽͗̀̓̈́͜͜ͅg̷̬̔̀́̈́̒ā̵͓̰̖̠̹̀͜i̵̛̙̻͙̬̬͎͚̗̘̐ṇ̴̨̢̪̫͖̦̱̼͓̆̓̆́̔̂̒͆̃̀̐͒͜.̸̧̝̔͜

̴̧̧͙̞̭͈̫͔͉̾͋̔͗̒̈̋́̾̄̆̈́̍“̸̛͈̗̬̓̂̓̋͂̕Ơ̴̡̜̯̮̻̅̉͊͒̍̊͊͂̀͘͝͝k̷̡͎̍͝ͅa̶̲̲͖͙̦͌͛͑̏͗̊͠y̵̙̅͒̀̈́̐̉́͑̈́,̸̡̮̰͚͚̺̎͜ ̷̫̱̹̰̣͚͎̋͌͂̊͜l̵̡͖͉̭͓̣̫̹̆͗̇͐͗͜ḝ̴͓̱̤͚̰̣̺͔́͒́̐̏͋̓̃̉̋͌̕t̶͓̖͔̗̱̺͖̹̊̍͗̓̅̈́͂̂̋̐̓̚’̸̠̭͎̲̝̹̐̄̌ṣ̸͚̺͇͚͉͍̙̍́͌̉̈́̾͘͝͝ͅ ̸̪̰̻̻̰͉̠̦͚̣̙ğ̴̨̼̘͇͇̱̋̈́͐̈̈̍̚̚͝ọ̸͎̐̑̾̅̀̓̓͒͐̑,̸̳̝̱̫̺̙̿͛̿͒͜”̷̧͕̩̗͔͙͇̣͈͋̋̑̉̈́̓̌̾̅͌̾͝ ̷̬͈̝̱h̸̡͇̳̠̘̦̾͑͒͐̅̇ȩ̴̩̗̲͍̝͇̟̭̥̫̋̇ ̷̘̥̥̺͈̾̏̀ͅh̵̨̳̗̪͍̗͜͝ȧ̷̻̟̟̩̦̃s̷̨̛̟̳̥̗̺̍͑̓̈͒͝ ̵͚̯̬̙͓̩̥͈̳̤̫̫̝̝̒͛̿͑̽̅͆̒̃́̋̏̀̒̕r̸̨̪͕̜̫͓͇͕̮͇̦̟͍̭̪̽̃̈́͐͌̐̐͆̏̚̚͝ȩ̸̙̞̥̱͖̫̜̗͚̺̠͖̮͖̈́͆͌͛̽̎̅̈̔t̷̡̛̛͙̟̠̙̯̺͎͍̮̝̦̂̾̐͋͐͆͐̌͆̕͜͝͝ͅȕ̶̧̹̟͓̦̿̓ŗ̶̣̖̽͂́̆̆͋̏̇͝n̸͇̠͖̲̹͕̱͗̋̑̌̒̕͝e̵̡͓͖͓̠̞̹͎͔̭̗̦͌͂͜ḑ̶͔̟͔̦̮͙̖̺̞̽̋̒̑̃̀̾̽̚͠.̶̥̖̺̘̯̽͒̏̐ ̶̮̭̻͎̀̍͆͋̓̒̍͂̾͐͊É̸̡͖̬̙̼̺͇̠͉̰̬̺̗̘̼̄̀͌̌̄̉̐͌͝ļ̵̯̱̜͇͎̤̈̈́͐̎͌̆͆͑̿̒͂͆͝ḙ̸̢̙̮̯̙̱̘̓͒̆͂̆̇̓͘͜͜ć̴͇̤̪̪̼̱͕͇̥̫̻̱̗̔̇̉̓̚̚t̶̢̛͙͈̱̣̹̼̺͎͖̥͎̞̐̎͆̎̒̿͝͠ṙ̴̡̯̺̪̈́͗̅̓̋̒͌́̓̚̚͝i̷̛̝̿͑̏̐̑͊͛̃͐̉c̶̨̗̖̹̳̦̪̤͍̥̐͆̚͜͠a̴̰͍̩̮̥̔̃̅̐̇̓͒̈͐́̊͗̑̚l̷̙̻̣̣̝͈̹̰͈̟͉͉̤̭̬̋̓͒ ̷̧̨̱̫̱̂͗̅̄̊̈́̂͑͂̏̽̿̓͝d̸̥̥̯̟̪̱͎̉̾̆̏̈̚̕͠͠o̷̥̍̾̓̈̆͝o̸̲͇̰̞͍͑͌̉̔̃r̴̘̦̣̥̦͗̈̎͛͌̕s̷͖͔̹̮̺̠̖͙̭͇͓̤̪͓̽̂̉̓͛̉̑ ̶̘̞̭̍̍͂̆͛͑̾͒̃̊́͋̈̌ǫ̵̤̰̔͋̂p̸̧̢̨̟̘̬̗̙͑̓͛̄͌͠ė̴̤͔͈͕̘͈͊̿n̷̫̼͓̣̫̞̜̠̗̮͖̋͋͐̋̔̍̈́̕ͅ ̴͍̝̝̞̥͑̈́̑̈̓͘b̸̢̛̹̹͕͖̼̰̱͉̲̳̫̫͓͈̚y̷̛̖̫̰̻̮̜̪͚̒́̂̈́̈̓̒̅͜͝͝͝ ̴̺͌̃͒t̸̡̮̺̩̥̖̲̗̰̩̰̲͇͔̒̽̾̍̔̽̌̈́̇̈́̉̇͘̕͝h̸̡̧̧̢̫̠̯̞̻̳̳̺̫̝̍͜͝e̴͇̊͐͝m̸̧̤̱̺̤̞̩̼̘̝̞͎̾̔̑̒̆͒͑͛̉s̶̨̟̪͇̠͕̯̹̪͔͍͂̿̅̾̃̃̓̆͋̓̂͘̚͘͜͜͝ě̴͓̍̋̿͋͆̎̑̈́̇̿͊̄̕͝l̸̢̢͓̮̳̬̲̥̮̟̒̒̍͗̔̋̋v̴̧̧̼͉̻̹̭̤̙̬̖̰̭͎̦̉̔̈́͋̋͂e̶̙̙̜̩̩͈̫̒͊͒́̒̓͐̚͜͝ͅṣ̵̨̙̻͎̻̭͕̜̃̿̏͆̄͐͘.̷̬͈̻̲̜̤͕̯̦͇̳̠̣͕̾̎͂͂͌́̋̑͝ ̷͕̰̟͆̄̏̈́̉̑͋̾͑̕F̵̨̠̫̼̰̹̻̦̬̳͉̯͙̞̓̈̉̿̽r̸̢̛̗̩͙͎̝̱̘̥͒̐̽̄̽͐́͌̓̕͘͝͝e̶̐̑̇ͅs̴͇͍̥͙̻͌͌̉ẖ̶̈́͋̍͝ ̶̢̭̗̞̝͉̥̤͖̤̤̅͋́̄̃͊͋͠ĉ̵̣̱̗̱͎̰͊̽͌̓̂̏͝ͅo̷̡̦̝͉̼͗͗̄͗̇̄̽̓̃͝l̶̬̳̗͔̹̘͇̣̼͑̿̆͐́͐͛̔̚͝d̵̒͆͋͐̇͗͘̚ͅ ̸̧̡̠̖̈͌̿̐̅̾̔͊̓͊̚͝͝͝͠ͅą̸̖͚̠̩͈̜̙̦̍̇͗ī̶̧͉͖̞̳͚͎̖̩̭̜̳̝̋̐͂̂̏̓̒̚r̴͖̹͉͙̦̠̫̼͊͛̂̏̊̈́̏̌͑̽̃͠͠ ̸̢̝͕͎̲͇̞͍̩͎͇̽̿ȇ̷̹̹̲͈̈̊ņ̵͚̯̑̀̇̈́͒̓̓́͝͝f̶͇̝͖͇̱̺̦̗̳͈̘̩̯͇̥́̎͑͂̈́̈́̿̒͊͝ǫ̴̢̗͎͙͍̯̫̻̟͒͒͗͜l̵̠̩̮͔̳̖̬̥̺͎̋̈̈́̏͂̓͑̒͐̈́͒̓͂͝ͅͅd̴̙͕̘͚͔̬̰̹̜̗̫̑̓s̷̨̨͕̪̜̰͚͈̭̈́̌̿̿̃͗͊̚ ̵̯̠̠͌̔̂͘̕͠u̷̧͕͎̰͔̗̥͕͚͙͙̇͂̆̓̇͊̈̽̈́̍̍͐̀͜ͅş̶̼͎̮͍̭̘̙͍̯̯̼̪̄̾̌͒̐̐̒̽̑͒̆̕͘͜͠ ̶̨̢̢͙̼̩͇͍̳̺̖̜̎̍̎̄̽͆̑͘l̴̡̡̡̲̮̳̫̥̪͎̮̱̈́̓͆͛̏̎̃͘i̵̛̼͓̗̣͚̓̈̇̎̀̋̋k̴̨͇͖̥̞̤͙̻̮̹͓̘̻̜̃̉̅̊̒ė̴̝̯͎̫̫̠̳͖͂͐̊̂̏͐͑̈̓͘ ̶̧̢͎̹̫͓̽̾̓̒̔̓͒̈́͘͠a̷̢̜̦͈̐̄͘ ̷̹̉c̶̻̹̎̈́͜ư̶̭̾̉̊̅͂̍͝r̴̗̔̀̇̓͊̈̈́̽͗̕͝ţ̷̡͚͉̤̙̜̲̼̀̚ͅä̴̧̡̡̡̼̩̬̥̟̖͎̘͕̠́̐̎͛i̵͕͖̲͍̯͎̹̙͖͖̮̅͑̅ͅn̸̡̛̬̜̪̥͚̥̣̖̤̽̑͒̏̅̒͌̂͗̂̏ ̶̢̧̩̱̙̖̆̏͌̃̕ẁ̵̩͚̣͎̣͋̿̈́̂̃a̸̛̲̳̔̽̊͐͗͗̎ǐ̷̢̼͕͇͓͖͓͙̀̒̓̿̈̀͜͝ẗ̴̗̘͚̝̘̩̦̯́͋̓͂̏͋͌͝͠ï̷̮̞̬͍̯̬͓͖͙̹͉̼̈͘͜n̸̨̧̲̠͇͇͚͕̤̘̲̠̑̆̈́̑̅͌͒ğ̷͎͎͕̰̆ ̵̛͇͓̟͉̠͇̙͂̈̎͐̃͐̈́̂͋͒̇ą̴̗͚̝̯͍̱̥̱̰̃t̵̛̫̗̪̺̩͚̞̼̱̜̜͈̞̞̓̃̏̓͌̀͆̀̂̒͆͝ ̵̧̛̮͖̣̩̭͉̹͉̝͍͋̔̉́ͅt̵̘̯̱̙͚̰͓͇̲͓̫͂̑̍̆̒̋̇͐̈́̕͝h̴̢̛͇͉̺͇̪̪̭͖̗̥͔̺̼̑͐̿̃̅̚͝͝ę̵̢̳̰̮̲̖̝͔͈̯͗̿̊͋̏̋͠ ̶̫̣͑̊̿̃̅̐͑̒ḋ̷̢̢̡͎͔̣̳͚̳̯͇̤̮̳̔̕ò̴̡͔͍̭͉̣̹̠̳̩͇͌̓̎̍̃͒͝o̴̢̳͔̰̱̒͌̾̽̔͋̓͌͌͂́̈́̚̕r̸͉̥͉̥̗̩̻̙̘̺̹͈̝̳̓̈́͒͗̐̎̐̎͗͋̿̇̍̕ͅs̸̥̞̒̃̇͂͒̿̒̕t̵̨̜̠̜̬̩̳̰͍͖͇̅̏̓̌̾̐͌̑̍͘ę̷̻͓͔̟̱͍̠̆̄͗̃̓̔̓̏̓̿̓p̷̨̢̛̘̜͌̾̀̓̊ ̷̦́̈́̾̏̎̉͋̈́̂̔̾͂͝t̷̢̡̢̳̞̹̬̠̠̠̳͎͌́͂͌͠ö̵̬̦̻́̒͂̈́̌̐̅̋̌̋͘͝͝͝ ̷̢̠̲͙̰̏͆̎̽͗̊̌̑̔̉̕̚͠e̴͈̹͈̼͛̍͑̉̂̊̐̈̈͝͝͝ņ̵̛̮̤̭̟̞̩͓̞̹̯̬̳̞̒̈́̂͑̀̍̏͜͠g̴͖̼͍̥͓̱͍̼͓͎̩͈̑̆͐̏̓̿̈́̿̃͘͠͠ú̸̡̢̧̫̞̬͈̬̟l̶̥̊̚f̸̡̱̩̭̘̥̣͉̳̪̠͚̙͇̈́͜ ̷̛̳̭̬͂͌̒̀̉̚͜͝ų̶̧̛͈͙̹͕̮̎͊̊͂͂͛̽̒̿̔̈́͘͝ş̴̦̞̩̲͍͒͊̓̈́̋͛̃͝.̴̬̩̞̗̱͕̩̦͂͐͊̃̈́̅̊̚ ̶̯̥̱͕͍͚̬̲̳̺̖͛͘Ḑ̸̡̟̼̤̖̘͠r̵͕̘͇̯̦̗͒̑͗̓̊̃̀̿́̚̕̕͜͝ͅi̴̫͉̍́͊̀͐̚z̶͈͎̯̰͍̲̘̟̣͔͔̻̮͒̄̂̑͐̅̽̓̓͋͒̔̕̕͜z̷̧̡̛͖̦̘͍̝̹̯͈͎̈́͊̀̈́̀̾͑̈́͂̔̒̅͒ͅl̷̢̛̝̦̰̱͇̤̙̖̪̩̊̇͛̇̊̍͒̆́ȩ̷̯̻̩̫̗̻̹̩̹̯̺̻͛͂͒̉̊͘͜͝͝ͅ ̷̗͖̱͕͇̝̺̼̫̼͇̫̜̊̏̓͗̌̃̑̒͝h̵̢̧̢̥̲̱̭͑̃͌̍̓̂̚̕ȃ̸͎̹̻̼͉̟͔̫̃̕ͅn̶̨̧̩̩̬̹̦̂̓g̷̫̘̤̟̞̾͐̅̂̍̊̚̚ͅś̷͖̰̦̞̹͔̓͂̿̈́̿͊͗̃͐̕ͅ ̶̺̦͎̯̪̓i̴̧̨̮͔̣̖͈͔͎̭̒̌̀̀̽̔̂̈́̕͝n̵̖̼̭͇̠͖͓̫͔͎͔̻͍̒̐̉̑̄͘͠ͅ ̸̧̧̢͚̹̱̗͉̬͖͒͋͐̉̈́̄̓̔̌̈́̚̕͜͝m̴̨͈̱̼̰̞̼̥͓̹͉̯̂̆̿͜͝į̷̗̒̋̂̐̊͗d̷̯͛̋̓̎̂͆̈̀͘͝͝-̸̡̫̙̙̳̭̮͚̋̄̽̃̄̌̾͝a̸̧̜̺̓͜i̷̭͈͖̍͋̓̑r̸̢͕̝̹̭̒ ̸͈͍͛͐̏̈́̈́̓͐ľ̵̢͖͇̖̓͑̀͑̂̈́̐̏̏́͘̚̚͜͜ȉ̵̟̝͙̈́̾͝k̸̨̤̩̣̼̱̥̗̂ȩ̸̺͕̯̐͌̔͌̚̕ͅ ̶͍̻̗̗͇͚́̈́̚͜͜ͅḽ̴̨̟͚̯̜̥̫̦̩͎̉ͅi̷̲͙̫͍̞͓̘͉͔͖͇̓̊͒̈́̂̾t̴̲͐̂͗͗̈̈̈́̕̚t̸̟̲̭͚̙̗̆̅̍̀͐̔̉̕͝͝ļ̶͙̺͓̝̳͙̇̈́͆ȩ̸͕͔̎̽ͅ ̸̳̗̯̳͈̜͚̑͒̓̎̓̽̑͊͛͠c̴̡̨͚̜̯̘͊̒͑̍̌o̵̮̙͇̹̙̹̙̫͚͈̟̽̎͗͋̓̆l̵̬̗̿͊͒̊̎̉̌͂̃̓̈̀̅͝ͅd̶̨̨̢̫̠̱̳̥͙͕̩̬̉̂̒̽̿̈̔̌͠ ̶̻͖͖̟͉̯̬̝̌̓͗͜t̶̩̘̭͎̻̊̇̍̓ͅe̸̫̪̤͚̥͜͝a̸̜̭̻̙̰̍r̸̞̻̞͍̪̦̰̿̉̎̔͒̾̇̕͝d̴̛̥͇̣͓̖͕̗̝̀̈̈́̈́̓͒͗̋̚͠͝ṙ̶̡̧̧̡̰͈͖̰͓̯̰̣̭̞̆̄̌̈́͗̂̂͑́͊͛̉͘͜o̴̧͈̜̝̙̠̤͍̾̀͐͊̎̚͜p̴̢̧̢̛̥͎̲͓̪̝̻̬͈̮̍͌̆̿͑͑̓̒̑̈̃̕͘ͅṣ̷̖̞̩̜͗͂̓̑͐̊̅̒̒̌͑̎̚͠͠.̶͕͉͕̜̋̉ ̴̨̛̭͇͍͕̝̄̈́̏̈̋͐̃̀̐͊͜͝T̶̨̫̅h̶̤͗̽́͗ë̷̢̢̟͇̣̰̯̭͙͉̙̪͈́̏́̊͌͗͗͊̕͜͝ ̶̢͈͍̲̥͍̳̼̩̤̠̌͋͐͗d̷̥̋̑́a̵̧̧̧̢̼̙̰̦̯̥͍͍̗͈̾̈́̑̐̽̀͜r̵̬̞͓̲͍̲͉̞͚̖̞̊̎̋̃̇́̂̅̓̆̏͝ķ̶̫̰̩͉̮̯̲̻̳͉̳̹̠͌͊̽ ̴͉͓̲̝̫̫͎̯̗͕͇̏̇̒̀͌̊̎̂b̴̡̯̫͎͇͚̖̫̯͌̀̐̊͋͜r̵͚̈́̑̂̍̄̑̈͒̾͒̄̈́ȏ̷̡̲̼͍̔͌͐͊̈́̃̉͋w̷͚̘͖̦̪̯͂̑̍͌͐̄̅́͐̿͂̚͘͠ṉ̶̛͎͉͙̖̦͔̜͖̹̙̼̣̺͇̿̋̓̀̃̅̿̾̿̆̿̚͝ị̴̛̬͔̥̈́̽̐͂̊̊̃̉̒͗͐̉̀͜s̶̨̢̨͉͍̣̗̭͖͔͚͓̬͛̅̓̈͜͝͠h̶͓̯͚͚̩̏̐͠ ̷̖̜̣̺͕̻͋̌̄̇͠b̸̡̧̨̙̼͎̥͕̘̮̝̭̿͒̃̂͊̋̄̆͊̕l̸̡̢̛̛͔͈̘̠̣̗̞͍̰͈͓̱̏͂̒̅͂̚̕ͅơ̷̡̢̲̗͙̬͇̱͔̱͓̙̖̅̇̒̄̍̈̐̈́̈́̃̉̒͘̚t̸̹͓̯̥̽̕c̶̨͉̗̹͓͖̙̰̃̈́̊͛̍͜ḣ̷̛̤͎̭͌̾͂͛̐̿̅̀̔̒͝͠ ̶̡̛̲͈͎̙̝͈̯̣̫̠̉̌͆͋͑͌̔͘o̷̧̡̨̱̟̣̞͇͓̖̒͂̍͂̏͜͝ͅn̷̡̳̪͙͗ ̵̢̡̜̠̠͓̟̮̪͙̪͋̌̂̎͂̿̓͗̂͊͆̈́̚͝͠ţ̷̳̦̠͔̣͇̺̥̋̒̐̾̿̂̎͜͠ö̸̢̧̡͓͉̹̜̪̼͚͍̥̘͋̈̓̇͆̑̍̓̇̏̍̓̽̎p̴̱͙͚̭͈̠̼͉̑̓͋̋͜ ̷̢̡̨̧̹͈͈̼̲͕̞͇̟̝̜͆̒̐̇̿̔̈́̊̒͊͂ǫ̸̳̼̖̝̯͓̥̥̳̗̔̅͑̆̈́̎̄͂̈̃̕̕̚͝f̷̨͌̽̓̅̆͆̌͝ ̷̢̛̍͂̃͆͊͒̔̌̑̚m̷̡̤͈̱̪̞̱̞̪͆̋͊͝͠y̷̢̡̧̡̦̱͇͙̟̜̤̟̠̑̇ͅ ̴̡̗̘̠̝̲̳̤̖̬̆̓͋͗̾̓͝v̸̭̯̘̮̪̱͎̩͆̈́̚͝ì̶̭̜͌̋̈̓͠s̸̠̠̥̎̀͜i̴̧̢̗͖̞̥͕̟͈̰͈͔̰̋́̓͂͗̓͘ơ̸͖̼̿ͅn̸̨͓̹͚͔̞̻̞̦̰̗̪̬̺̰͌̆̏̋̆̈́ ̸̝͙͇͔͓̪̦̲͙̥̥̗͛͗̈̌̌̒ͅh̷̗͓̣̙̭̞̯͉̄̑ͅa̵̢̛̠̖͕͎̰̺̝̫̖͆̑̔̄͐͛̅͒̕ͅs̴̡̢̫̬̯͕̘̙̤̠̤͒̊ ̴̛̦̝̤͓̯̓́͆̌̍̇̊͐̚t̶̢͔͚͔̝̹͕̰̦͓̻̯͐̉̈́̇̈́͑̆̍̌͂͊̃͜͝u̵̗̹̬͌̓̐͝͠r̶̢͖̳͖̻͔͉̽͜ņ̴̯͖̭̪̜̺̺̩̞͊̅̌̿̀̽̓̚e̶̫͙͋̏̿̌̄d̴̰͍̭̰̮͆̆̏̃ ̵̛̻͍̩͖́̆̎̿̅̀̓̕͘͝͝a̸̛͔̥͂͌ ̶̢̢̟̱̮̬̦͙͖̲͖̙́̒̄̈̃̒̔͗͘͝ͅl̶̨̨͓͇͍̜͎̣̱͍̗͗̆̂͊̉̂͜i̴̡̹̬͗͗͗̉͑͂͛͜͜͠ṫ̷̟̻͔͍̲͇͍͙̺̪̐t̴͇̊ļ̸̧̧̙̤̜̟͖͖͔͖̗̲̹͓͝ë̸̡̡̗̯̤̯̩̞͖̟̍̔̄̕ͅ ̸͇̾͒͘͝b̸̢̞̱̳͉̝̳̣̯̪͔̟͔̮̭͌̓̍͌͝ṛ̵̊̈́͊͌į̵̮̦͔̳̜̺̼̺̜̤̪̭̻̂̑̈̌̽̿̏͗̓̊͗͑͜g̶̡̺̬͈̻̭̓͋̽͆̾͑̒̕͘͝ẖ̶̹͔͎̥̼̍͑̃̏̏̃̌̍͠t̶̨̡̢͓̩̩̓͗̈͐̔̍̑͜͜ẻ̸̛̥̹̠̠͛̾̋̏͒͌̇̕͜r̶͉̠̼͓͓͋̔͆̒̾̏̐̈̒̄.̷̢̗̜͍̩̠͚̹̻̹̹͓̠͈̈͂͛̏͆̈́ͅ ̸̻̪̖̌̑̾̈́͆̆̏͒̓̚Ŵ̵̡̛̖͚̖̥̈͑̒̂̓̆͗͂̔̚͠͝͝ę̸͓̺͉̘͕̤͌̆̊̏͑̏͆̃̽͊͘͠ͅȃ̴̲̎̑̀͑̄̾͑̏̕k̸̛̮̖̈̽̓͐̈́ ̴̡̜͇̙̟̹͚̖̍͠͝w̷̢͍̲̪̥̭̯̜͎͇̏̈́î̴̗͈̰̋̾̾̽̓̍͒̕͠ͅn̵̯͓̻̠͖̰̟̻͍͉͙̤͈͒ḍ̵̠͙̼͔͖̣͉͑̉̉̈͜ͅŝ̵͈̳͕̰̬͎̯̺̬̲̳͉͘͜͜ ̷̧̮̪̭͈͇̣͊̓̈̅͐̀͊͝w̸̧̬̠̖̫͉̻̖͎̍̍͌͗͝ͅh̷̟̻̩͕̾͑̓͌̊͝i̶̛̛͚͖̮̐͂̓̾̿̀̆̆̅ͅs̶͎͆͛̑͊̌̉͒̈́̑̃̂͒̾ț̵̪͙͈͖̻̰̹̹̮̯͉̞̩͒͆͐̏͝ͅl̷̡̛̪͌̃͠͝͝ȩ̵̛͚̤̟̻̘͔̘̯͛͗̒̕ ̵̛̼̟͖̹̓͛̌̄̊͋͑̎a̷̝͕̞̣͓̪̜̐̍̈́̃r̵̪̼̟͍̠̪̹̙͖͒̋̓̕o̶̘̱͈̗͔̘͆̽͊̏̊̐͌̅͝͝ͅu̷͎͍̿̈́͌̀̈́͘n̷̥͗̇̋̒̈́͛̏̈́̃̔̆́̂̚͝ḑ̸̩̙̳̘̞̞̮̩͂̂͆̒̇̑̓̃̑̈́͌̂̕ ̴̢̢̛͉͎̖̳̘͈͖͎͚̫̬͈̆̔̅̈́͗̓̅͂͑ͅư̶̡̡̢͖͈͖̩̬̹̻̠̲͚͛̈̌̒͆͂̇́̓͂̌̉͒͆ͅs̵̡̢̡̡̘̠̘̟̣̼̬͚̙͒̃͒̓͗͋̉̍́͘̕͜ͅ.̸̨̬͆̆̅̈̒͒͊̔̈́͘͘ ̷̝̯̠͂̎̿̾̐́͝“̵͈͖͇͖̺̞͑̌̈́͛̂̇͊͠W̷̡͕̖̲̩͚̮̜̮̱̮͖̯̾͒́͂̂̓͊̓̕͘ͅͅh̷̰͈̮͋̑̈́̇͑͗̊͊͑̾͗è̸̮̖̟̮̘̙͌̈́̓̐̎́̆̐͛́̕r̸̢̤͕̣͇͑̀̃̑̎̀̏̐̐͝ͅȩ̵͔̟͉̫̂ ̴̛͔̯̗̹̩̫̮͔̳͚̺̓̆̋͐̄̔͗̋͆̃̒̈̂ä̶̡̛̭̹̦͔̦͕͕̣̪̤̫̼̲̮́̿͂͝͝r̷̮̣̬͇̈́̇̈́̈͂̋͑̐̕͜e̸̩͙̜̭͔̩̝̦͛͋̅̿͛̓̈́͒̾̕͘͘͝͝ ̷̮̬̤͉͔̲̠̗͕̫̊̾̈́̾̈́͌͛͒̇̌͒͝w̸̧͕̖̥͍̱̦̣̦͕̮͇̱͙͌͑̀͐͑͛̈ė̸̡̢̠̙͔̋̀͋̂̐͆̉?̵̢̛͈̮̦͔̩̗̼̮͓̬͚̔̔̃̿͐͂͐͂̊̕̕̕͠ͅ”̴̼̹̼̺͑͂͂̆ ̵̡̳͉̝̜̮̆̓I̸̢̹̻̗͔͇̟̣̞̬̝͇̔̑̈́̽̈̋̈́̐͌͘͘͜ͅ ̴̦͍̱̫͐̍͝a̶̡̼̦͉̹̞̝̼͍̣̯͗̆̓s̸̢͎͎̜̗̦̘̯͇͉̪̜̈́̂͗k̷̪̞͔̤͕̍ ̴̢̢̨̫͚̜̭̭̠̣̤̟͕̭̫̍̒͛̿̓̚Ȩ̷̛̮̤̥̺̒͂̀͝r̸̻̿̇͋͆̋̂͒͘į̵̨̬̝̩̺̳̹̟͓̞͍̻́̎č̷̩̯̝̎̔͝.̶̧̢̹̩̘̱̦͇͓̩̬̥̎̍̋͌̆͗̕͜

̶̮̠͛̉̔͋̌̄̀̅͝͝“̵̩̞͍̼̗͔̱̜̥͍̖̞͉̉͂͌̀̈́͗̈́͐̿̈̚͜O̶̢̯͙̜͕͎̠̓̈͗̇͒̌͗͐̍́́͛͐͗ư̷̻͒̈́͊̾̊͋͋͒̊̓̚̚͝t̷͙̄̑͋̽̿͑̉s̴̛̥̀͗̏̄̍̈́͝͠i̷͎̪͔͙͗d̴̢̧͉̣̳̩̯͚̗̼͈̖͆̏͊̀̀̐̆̕͜͝ͅe̸͖̼̖̻̦̼̘̖͍̍̒̇͊̉͐̓͠.̵̧̡̫̝͎̩͎̙̰̿̊͌͆͊̐̈͂̄͐̈́̿ͅ ̴̡̎ͅẺ̶̢̧̡̢̲̬̠̬̮̬̩͕͉̆̌͑͐̃̇̍̋͐͘̕͝͝n̸̗̜̈́̇̿̉̓̈́̏̽͆͠͝ͅt̴̮͈̟̭̲̘͎̮̬͔̣͈̎̎͂͒͛̚͜͝ŗ̶̮̮̙̭̠̳̲̰̜̻̲̺̜̾̈̈́̌̈̂̔̾̊͗̕͜͝͝ą̷̪̭̝̟̬̑n̵̢͎̬̘̙͕͉̘̆͗́͂̉̏c̵̣̬̭̔̑e̸̗͚̱͚̻̞͂́̆̽̍̍̈́̽̃̔̂͝ ̷̛̥̞͔̺̭̂͗̔̆͆̋̃a̵̛͖̥̙̟̬͚͂̈́͛r̵̦̃͌̎̀̃̿͒̀̐̇͘ë̸͓͈̩̞̳̞́a̵̢̨̬͙̜̜̗̬̬̹̻̅̓͋̄͂̕ ̸̨̛̰̮̲̟̠̟̍̂̉̑̃̐̈́̽̊̐̑͘̕õ̴̡̖̞̬̼̻̻̣͓̭̬̻͎̝̪̒͘f̵̡̪͙̙͚̬̩̪̩̞̟͈͍̌ ̴̣̤̘̆̅̇̓̋̒̏̇̉̀͋̇t̵̬̤̙̜̺̯͔̠̠͈̫͔͛̈́́̎̐͘͠h̶̢͚̭͙̗͓͗̉̾͑̈́̓̏͜ị̶̛̼̜̯͐̾̆̂̇̾̒̄̃͂̐̈́̃͝s̴̢̛̛̰͔̮̫̹̞̮̱͎̞͖͍̰͑̑̏̑̈́́̅̾̽̕͜͝ ̸͍̖̫̳̼͎͚̟͙̩̭̤̜͑͗͋͛̑̆͛b̷̛̠̗͐̂̉̒͊̉̚ȗ̶̢̧̫̣͚͍͎̯̯̜͓̞́į̴͉̭̰͉͔̮͈͎̤̹̠̓͊̕͜͝l̷̢̛̫̣̬̻̪̭̱̯̯̞̯͇̾̈́̏͋͒͂͛͛̓̿d̸̡̲̩̘̩̄̓̾͒͒͐͌̋͆̓͛̾͆̕͜͝ỉ̵̢̜͉͉̌͛̆̔̅̐̊̐̿̚͘͜n̸̠̮̞͔͍̫̯̱̬̥̝̺̳͕̯͊̇̈́̃͋͛̈́̒̕̚̕g̷̢̧̡̨͈̖͈̗̈́͂̅͜ͅ,̶̟̬̯̦͍̓͆͘͠”̴̨̜̪̮͎͉̼̪̯̝͇̙͊͑͜ ̴̡̢̢̣̺̙̝̱͙̭͕̑͐̒͝͠ͅͅh̵̨͚̣̙̫͎̞̫̓̋̆ę̸̜̙͈̦͓̘͙͕̃̆͂̄̋̎̚ ̷̧̧̡̹̟̟̺͙̗̉̐͗̽̈́s̴͙̱̜̼̻͓̻̑ă̶̛̞̠̣̹̜̼͇̈͒̎͘y̶͕͍͈̻̱̼̟̘̙̹̻̑s̵̛̯͕̀̈́͛̂̿̋́̑̌͒̊̊̚.̸͓̭̙͛̑̀̎̊ ̸̢̜͖̳̺̺̊͛̓̈́̆̽͒̂͑̕̚͠͝“̸̱̻̀̇̆̋̾͗́̽̚Ţ̶͇̰̥̘̻͔͍̙̬͂͒e̷̢̹͍̳̰̙̪̼͂͌̃͋̈́͋͐̕ļ̴̲͕̣̣͔͈̖͕̞̽̐̽̾̈̕͝ḽ̷̢̨͍̜̞̟̏̒̿̆̃̾̊̒̃̋ ̶͉͎̣̯̺̟̻̣͚̊͒͘m̸̛͉͇̮̙̤̽͗̅̏̇̈̃̋̕͜e̵̢̤̭̝̺̽͂̏̽̽̿̔́̍͘,̷̨̛̮̮̝̳̼̯̥̥̎͌́̈́̎̇̈́̌̾͘͝ ̷͓͇̟̰̯͂̉̒̆͆̍͑̎͊̈́̑͘͠w̸̆̌͒̎̎̃̆͛̐͒̇͘ͅh̸̲̠̩̜̝̭̼͙̠̦̬͂̈́̉̆̿́̄̄̚͝͝ͅͅą̷̥͓͚͍͙͒͋̈́̈́̃̆̚͝t̷̙̑̒̾͒̑̌̄ ̵̤̹̤̩͖̯̣̯̜͕̰̄̔̐̍̾͒͜͜ͅͅw̷̺̠͔̱̖̻͈̟͔͋͛͆̔̑͑̚͝ǫ̵̦̩͉͔̖̂̇̇ṳ̸͔̳̲̼͎̜̘̗͍̟̘̦͝ļ̸͚̙̯̙̟͖̫͔̻̉͒͆̓̇̀͘͝d̴͖̤̰̬̺̾́̉̎̂͐͂̿̽͘̚͘ ̴̧̧̛̟͇͇͍͎̗̓̄̈̏̏̐̉́̆͜͠ͅÎ̶̧̧̛͇͉̖̥̫̤̬̟̘̑ ̸̨̛̣͕͉͈͓̤̜͐̔̑̍̋͂̿̂ṡ̶̹͇͙͇̫͕͔̼̬̬̂́̚͝ẻ̸̢̙̱̬̗͇̤̳̠́̒͛̅͛̈́̃̂̆͝ͅͅȩ̴̛̺̭̝̹͚̦̥̳͚͎̣͐̓̽̎̂̑?̵̢̛͕͇͓͇̲͚̔”̴̨̲̲̙̱̪̺̱͎̯̬̝̹̲̆̑͘͜ ̸̨̹͚̲͆̄̾͌̋̕͝Ị̵̡̢̗̤̺̫̥̺̫͗̽͐̊ ̴͓̹̼̝͙̖̘͕͍̚ċ̷̡̢̭̺̲̯̪͕̮̳͎̭̽͜ͅļ̴̡͇̳͈̭̗̬̜̙͔̹̗̍͑͑̈́̐͆ͅa̵̛͉̩͆̈́̄͆̈́̔͗̃̅̒́͜͝͝r̶̨̪̟͉͈͉͇͓͇͓̃̾͒̓̇͑̈̄͊̈́͑̿͠i̵̧̺̱͒f̵̼̠̤̼͇̖̪͚̜̹͎̱̭̩̏ͅy̸̡̨͍̟͇̼̥̌̈́͒̇͊͗̊͠ ̵̢̡̡̨̞͔̙̺̠͍͖̪̂̎̋̐͜͝m̴͎͎̖̫̙͚͚͖̮̮̙͖̙̭͂͛̒̂̈́̈́͂͑͊͆̈́͝y̷̡̢̻̘͓̤͉̐̅̓̕͜͝ ̸̨̨̢̱̯͔̗͈̯̣̜͓͛͌̈̋i̴̢͎̫͚͉̳͊̈́̍̍͑͐̋̇̾͌̍ņ̸̛͎͍̱͙͉̖͚̱̩͕̓q̴̛̛̱̳ų̸̢͎̣̰̗͙̳̙̩̥̣̥͑͐̒̊̿̆̐͑̑̈̓i̷̧̨͇̳̝̪̜͍̺͒̽̍͑̓ŗ̶̨̨̧͇͇͈̼͕̭̞̳̱̱̃͐̂̿̇̏̊̊̉̉͂̈ͅy̶̨̢̟̱͍̤̤̙͖̗̪̲͐̏̒.̴̡̡̭͓͔̝͍͓̔͆̀̒̒̈́̌̏͋̆͠͠ͅ ̶̼͖̭̒̍̏͆̾̉͒̄͑̎̚͜“̸̧̰̹̺̻̯̚ͅG̷͖̈̄̅̇̓͗̊̅̒̿͆͒̔̈́r̴̟̣͇̜̠̯͎͍͕̺̖̊ȅ̸͚̞̠̣̲̯͕̲̀̓͜e̶̩̒̚ņ̴̣̝̥̥̈́͊̒̓̈́̊̾͋͛͌̈́̚e̸̠͖̣͉̯̽͋̎̇̂̽̑̋͛̒̓̕͘͘͜r̶̛͔̣̣̖̖͇̳̞͌̉̂̆̅̀̈́͌̂̆͌̚͝ÿ̷̫͔͖̠̮̳̣̳̘̠̥́͛͆̓͑̇̃͜ͅ,̸̧̡̝̱̥͈̬̳̬͑̉͒̓̆̐̊̅̂̍̒̕̕ ̵͈͉̲̳͍̹̻̜̞̈̽̋̇͐͒̀̓̈̓͛͝p̵͕͎̘̖̯̺̱͇̻͖͠ĭ̶̪̺̻͍͉̯̻͙̅̒̅̈́̑̅̌̿̂̚͘̕n̴̻̈́ͅe̵̛̝̠̙̿̌͋̍ ̸̡̖̝̬͕̱̪͓͖̞̦͖̞̻͆t̵̝̮͍̺̤͇̭͊̆̏̇̑̅̐͂̒̍͋͋͘ͅr̸̯͒̈͛̌̇̿̿͊͒̂̕ẹ̷̛̣͙̯̹̙͔̙̳͍̼̗͎̆̍̂̈́̔̀̌͐̂͜͝ě̸̡̨̺̱͈̟̘̪̠̠͔̯̘́̎̓̑̏͝s̸̡͍͓̮͙͚̱̯̣͇͛͆͋̍͊̈́́̚̚͠ͅ ̷̟̇ȉ̵̳͎̫͓̙̫̰̫̮͚͌͘ͅn̴̼̣͓͇̦̤̻͑̇̈̄͗̅͒̓͐̈́̊̀͊͝ͅ ̵̨̲̝̞̘͖̰̣͔͛͗̈̑̈́̎̆̎͑̄͠͠f̵̨̊͑͑́̾̇̀̚͝r̵̨̬̦̗̮̥̳̍̏̆͆̚͜ͅͅȍ̴̹̙̥̲͇̬̜̱͗̈͆͊͒̔͆̐̈́͛̿̚͜͝n̸̡̈́̎͐͊̐͝͝ț̶̫̠̜̠̩͍͚̯̬̺͖̻͇̗̐̍ ̷̲̫̯̰̜͚͖̞͕͖̝̭͇͛̑͑̂͑̔́͆̓̽̑̾̕͜͠ͅơ̶̢̨͚͓̭̭̤̜̲̤̳͙̬̈́̇͗͗́̋̉̿̽̅̽̋̚̚f̴̨̨̬̭̫̱̩̟͍̰͎̠͒͊̾̐̒̂͘̕͜ͅͅ ̶̻͚̊̾̾͗̈́̈̉̃̌͠͝u̸͖̗̹̦̯̮͓̱̺s̴̢̡̳̮̼̪̹͔̺̾̇́̈́̀͊̉ͅ.̷̨̅̓͜ ̷̲̬̲̂O̶̭͙͋̆͒̔͑̉̈́̈́̓̕c̵̖̤͙̟͙̘̳̰͚̞̥͒̈́͌̉e̶̢̧̙̖̹͈̻̩̗̣̫͉̗̋̂̐̉̀̎̀á̶̢̩͈͇̠̘̆̂͊͜͝n̵͍͌͑̔̾̄̓̃̚ ̵̙͖̬̜̗͋͜t̵̼̬͚̝̺̲͉̣͎̱͔͔̜̿̒͊̉̒̑͘̚ȏ̵̰̱̺̼͔͔̮̕ͅ ̸̟͕͕̩̟̮̱̣͒̋̏͂̈́͋̑͊͠ͅo̷̰̹̗̯̙̰̣̰̞͗̍͑̇̎͘ǔ̵̠̖͈̻̜̂̆́͌̈́͘͠r̷̢̡̢̧̰̯̻̘͓̞̱̈̇͌͆̓̈́̓̃͜ ̴̨̛̜̺͙͕͉̞͇͚͚̠͉̞̹̽̉̂͜r̵̛̙̜̲̹̻̪̉͗̑̓́̾͌̊̕͘i̷̺̬̘͋͂̑̏̃̐̈͌̉̈́̄͝͠g̵̭̳̰͙͙͈̬̰̠͑̆̈́͗̐͠h̶̢̤̖͙͙͕̩̮̼̙̼͙̏̀ṯ̴̢̮͈̹͐̀̾́̋͑̅̄͘͝͠ ̷͎͙͛̾̄͌̐͛͌̆̾̿ả̵̢͍͉̳͇͌͝n̷͍͖͙̈́̔d̶͙͉̹̉̽̒͆̉ ̸̡̯͎̞͒̈́̓̓̍̕ạ̷̧̨̧̡̛̺͔̥̠̱̲̉̅̽͆̋̾͜͠ ̴̼͑̊͂̈́͆̚͝R̸̖̩͖̝̩̰͚͉̮̼̣͍̻̐̐E̸̠̼̹̓͗Ḓ̵͔͆̉̽̉͆̉̐͘ ̴͙̭̭̤̥̒̀̀̇̾̍͒̅͆͗͝s̷̢̩̖̜̗͓̤̳̥͛k̶̡̡̛̘̻̘͙̥͎͓̒͊̋ͅy̵̢̡̤̗̰̌͆̆͛̚͘,̸̡͓̥͈̪͊͑͂̌̐͋̋̈́͝”̴̪͈̲̎̂ ̵͔̳̉̃̇̿͛̍͂̎̉̄̕͘͘͝h̵̨̠͇̟̣̫͖̃̿̒͋̍̀͋̀̇ě̶̳̩̬̮͉̘͔͇̫̬̐͑͋ ̸̖̪̖̲͕̳̯͕̲̝͈̳̝̱̇͒̾͛͛͠b̴͚̈́͆r̷̨̛̻̻͍͖̥̈́̌̋͊̐̎͛͐͗́͘͝ȅ̸̡̡̫̥̥͖̘͙͇̠̲͕̱̌̉͂̌͂͛̆͋̍̓͘͝ͅȃ̸̼̤̿̃͆̌͊̌͆͗̐̃̄̈́̕ķ̶͖̹͚͚̰̱̲͇̜̈͊͒͆̌̎͝͠ș̸̨̟̞͔͉͈̄̏͊̋̓̽͐̋̿̓͛̓͝ ̴̧̢͖͇̹̤̰̜̺̦̖̘̹͓̲̍̍̾͌́͌͑͑̐̂͛̕̚î̴̖͉̲̜̟̤̫̞̥t̶̼̭͇͖̟͚̰̾̆̈́͆̈́̃̆͋̽ ̸͓̣͖̪̬̥̋͊͆̋̈̒̈́̚͠d̸̬͉̥̅̔̋̊͠ǫ̷̛̺͖̩͔̗̹̖͎̖͊̇͗̾͐̏̒̅̑̇w̷̨̙̜͙̼̖̪͕̎̽̓͒̈̇͒̽̚n̶̡̨̧̹͈̝̠̜̫͔̤͕͖̓̀͘ ̶̡̙̞̮͚̠̘̪͓̥̤͍̩̰̅͗͆͛̊̓͌͗͘͠ĩ̷̡̪̠̫͙̉̍̑̄͘ņ̸͔̞̙̬͔̠̄̄͘t̸̛̩̺̖̫̪̦̪̟̙̺̃͐̍̊̆̈́̿͆̈́̚ͅǫ̴̛̲͖̘͙͉͇͙̗͋̀̔͗͛̅̄ ̷̨̛͇͓̦̬̤̫̤̦̈́̃́̂̋̃̍̉̿͘̚͘͝b̴̧͍͖̳̘̘̥̫͆̇̈́́̂ơ̸̢̥̟̮̘̮͕̻̹͓͎̘̩̞̻̒̐͌̈́̊̆̓͘r̸̡̧̨̠̠͈͖̭͖̪͙͇̬̠̃̂͛̃̍̅̂̾͆̚͝ͅȉ̷̢̡̩͚̙̭̹͕̬͑̕ņ̸̟̘͖̱̺̜͋̒͊͋̈́̇͘ĝ̵̮̪͕̟̂̂̀͗͑̈́ ̷͉͈͍̮̩̫͓̼̫͚̜̦͍̮͒̑̉͌̆̃̇͒̓͐́̌̌͘͠ͅs̴̢͕̗̬̜̪̫̱͕̖̣̐͜ë̴̩̠́͒͋͊̋n̶̨͓̣͎͖̺̫͙̦̗̜͛̈́̐̔̆̿͋͗̚͘͝ţ̵̛̮̆̄́͋͂͋͑̍̃̕͝ĕ̸̢͖̱̦̤̈́̚n̶̡̟̟̤̊̇͆̓͋́͊͛͐͆̿̆͝͠ͅc̷̦͊͒͂e̵̛̯͕͂̈́̓͂̅̊͋̇͑̎̔̈́̕̕s̵̖̗̪̤̭̐̈̀̌̋͝.̷̧̳̥̤̩̺̞̹̍̎͠

̴͈͕̳̝͇̮̑͑̄̓̐“̴̰̲̥̖̐̍̂̈́͛͌W̴̬̮̻̫̬̬̩̉͋͌̎̏̓̾̉̑̾͑ͅḧ̶͙͖̩̦̹̗͉̩̲́͗͌ͅä̴̩̪̫͍̠͂͝ţ̷̠͈͎͎̘̹͉̪̻͔͑̏̒͂̚͜͠ ̶̧͔̠̬̝̤͖̘͖̤̓͊̈́̓͗͜ẗ̷̢̝̝͎́̽̔͛̽̒́͠i̴̺̦̞͂́̋̃m̸̬̖̥̲̻̹͇̻̋͑̑͜e̴̮̟̟̝̳͛ ̵͚͖̹̖͆͑̽̓̑̿͂̉͝͝i̶̘̭̮̠̰̥͙͇͕̻̞̼͕̺̘͛́͋s̷̘̋͐͂͋͌͂̉͠ ̸̛̮͋ȋ̶̢̡̬̟̬̠̼̻̹̭̦͙͋̋̐̈͛͋͂̋̀͌̌t̶̻͂͑̄̓̔͆͠?̴̟̙̇̌̇͑̏̓”̶̨̬̺̞̲̘̞͔̙͗̉̓́͑̋͑̌͝ ̸̨̰̫̳̹̬̤̻̈́͑̀͆͑̓̈̓͊̈́͆͠Ì̵̧̘͓̲̤̙̫̼͊̋̉͝ ̴̢̨̤̜̖̠̫͈̟̎́̈̒̈́̚ͅȃ̶̡̹̥̹̝̟̰̦̰̓́̅̓̂̃̕͜͝ͅs̵̡͙͓̭̱̙̆͒̓̐̇k̴̅̒̃͜.̶̢̛̛̦͔̮̩̬͉̰̜̥̩̝̟͉͖̒̄̈́̇̊͋̆͗̈͝͝

̸̙͔̝̠̙͈̘̩͈̝̤̊̈̑͒̎̓̾̔̚“̴̡̓͒̐́̾̆̕È̶̢̡̢͔͔̘̬̱͚͇̐̕r̶̡̛̤̠̞͖̟̣̥̠̅̆͊̆̆̏͊͆͊̊͝m̸̡̡̧̛̱͇̟̤̟̹̤̣̌̐̉̕͜,̵͙̯̈͊̎̏̋̿͊͆̈̉͌̑͘̚͝ ̵̧̨̧̛̤̟̲͓̪̟̫̯͎͈̏̒̊͋͐̇̓̈́͊̈́i̸̥̝̟̩̙̠̋̂̈́̈́̎͜͠ẗ̶̡͚̭̖͉́͒̎͆̒̎͗́̃͒̋͌̄̈́’̶̧͚͇̻͙̳̝̓̓̊̽̈́̿͜͜s̷̨͔̤̗͓͚̓̔͆̈́̚͝ ̶̢͕̙̼̝̋́̃͑̐̈̏ă̴̝͈̝͙̦̩̝̖̎̌̈̉̕͘̕ͅl̴̡̢̺̮͇͖̪̣͉͔̳̲̫̰͐͊̒̋̈́͆̓̈́̈͊͘͠ͅm̵̨̨̱̜̩̖͇̬͓̥͓̉̚͘ơ̴̟͉͚̟̠̗̲̼̖̂͛̍̋͆̈́̓̀̍͘s̷̬̟̹̻̻͓̻͕̻̱̬͔̤̠͑̒̽̔̐̋͑̇̕̕̚͝t̸̛̩̘̞̟̣̪̆̈́̊͗̈́͑̄͗̚ ̵̛͈̲̹̭̪̯͇̝̏̋͊͂͐̽̎͊̈͘̚̕s̸̝̺̘̳̣̲̉͛̐̒̒͌̎̽̊͠î̴̪̱̫͔̬̟̼̳͇̏͂͐̏̉̊̚͜͜͝x̵̧͎̪̣̻̫̜̟͉̳͖͈̘͙̀͆͋̉͐͑̿̚͜ ̶̭̺̲͍͕̋̃p̸̙͗͋̐̑̋̆̈́̒͘͘m̵̡̙̪̼̦̩͇̻̆͑̐̑.̴̨̮͙̬͇̲͈̪͕̗̟̮̑̌̎̓̉̃̓ͅ”̸̨̨̜̘̩̙̦̲͕̣͒͂̈́̐̌̇̈́͝

̴̛͔̠̱͍̰͕͈͈̗͙̟̱͑̔̀͂͒̄̇͊̌͆̾͂̚“̸̠̺̠͊͛̓͗͑W̷̢̰͔̩͚̫̞̙̰̙̬̠̘̌̈́̾̽͜í̶̳̪̣̼̬̺̈̑͊̋̚l̶͔͎̪͒͆͊̍̈́͋l̷̢̡̧͙̞̙̬͔̻̠̝̫̂̀̈́̈̀̽͊̒̄̆̚͘͝ ̸̛̻̻̻͙͕̟̍͑̐͆͋̃͋̄ͅͅŷ̸̪̻͈͕̞̼̣̤̬͉̔̃̌̇̋̎o̷̢̬̺̝̖̖͓͍̥̤̭͌̾̏̿̓̀̑͊̚͜͝ͅu̷̡̧͓̲̯̭͙̝̠͕̺͉̠̎̒͆͋̀̓́̓̏͘ ̵̧̛̛̦͇͚͖̻͍̖̓̏͆̿̎̏̓̾̑̏̈́̕͜ͅț̷̡̢̩̹̺̳̈́̓͊̌͒̄̓̍̏͗̏̈͝͝e̷̟͍̗͈̱͉̝͠l̴̺̯͕̝̹͈̭̙̐̾̓̽̌͋̿͘͜l̷͙̗̱͉͎͖̍̋̀̄̄̍̍͘ ̷̧̗̙̩̩̮̞͖͖͖̖̪̀̂̎m̴̧̨̢͚̝̞̞͓͔̫̟̞̊̍̉̐͗͑͋̋̊̽̌͌̀͘̚ͅͅę̵̧̨̢̝͔͚̬͓͍̣̰̗̉̎͊̓̌̔̃̏̕̕,̶̡̡̡̥̜̩̣̞̗̲̘̬̮͊̄̈́̓̌̚͝ͅ ̴̡̢̳̮͙̹̰̰̦̥͍͔͓̬̃̎͐ͅw̷̧͕͓͑̐͋h̵̨̘̞̰͇͍̦̱̣̝̝͙͎̚͜a̸̺̻̞̩̹̫͕͈̗̠̺̙̯͆̓́͝͝ţ̵̨̢̛͖̣̹̮͔̻͓̗̥́̓̕ ̶̨̡̗͎̗̤̫̂͂h̶̛̤̼̙̅́̾̓̌̈́̾̋̓́͜å̶̪̮͉̣̝̭̮̜̠͓̝̤̆͆̂̽p̷̣̜̺͍̩͖̹̮̳͑͊̄̾̀̐̌̓̀͋͐̒͒̃p̷̻̦̪̙̰̉̍̅̾̎̏̓͐̓̚͘͠ė̷͖̥̱͖̰̣̬̰͍͕͚̋͒͛̾̍͑͆̕ͅn̶͇̯̙͕͕̞̱̂̔͂̿̋͆͊̉͌͋͋̓͘ḙ̷͓̗͖̺͇̦̓̈d̴̲̰̙̳͛̉͊͐ ̵̢̧̗̫̘͓̺̯̖̳̥̮̎̈́͐̾̇̄́̍̌̃̆̈́̚͠͝t̸̨̩͚̗͚͍̝͓͓̼͉̎̈̒͜o̶̢̞͚̤͔̘͂̉̋̉͘ ̶̠̥̝̣̘̍̊͝ͅȯ̸̠̙̤͇̙̬̻̥̘̬̩̮̩͑̅͒͐̌̑̓́̽͛͗́͘͠ͅű̴̪̺͔͇̦̲̣͔̘͉̼̟̥̺͖̈̉͒͊̈́̈̓̕͝͠ř̶̞̝͓͓͈̼̬̲̯̒̅̓̅̆̓̕͝͝ ̴̬̲̗̏̉̍̿S̸̢̡̧̢̛̱͖̞̯͉̈́̾͘͜ä̷͇͔͙͙̦̘̗̭́͗̂̽̅̎̓͆̂̽͘͠i̴̢̨̗̪̙͕̘͇̱͖͑̓͗̋̏͠n̷̡̖̻͔̠̓̆̋͆t̸̛̰͖͙͎͌̾̆̌͑̐̊̑?̸̧͉̂͋”̴̢̨͎̻̪̟̯͚͉̈͒̊̎̃͜͠͝ ̴̨͎̩͈͈̤̠̽͋̑̈́͌͝͝͝Ḋ̵̢̛̻͕̬̻̲͚̖̯͚̺̪̌̑̈́̓̏̈́͌͌̊͘ͅĮ̴̨͕̰̤̅͠Ę̷̺̭̜̖̦͈̯̥̥͎͖̐D̷̡̧̡̢̘̮̩͉̲͇͉̝͎͛̇̇̂̉̔̓̉̔͜ ̷̢̹̪̪̣͔̥̩̘͙͖̟̳̰̌͋͂̆͗́͆̽͘B̸̡͕̩̬̳̦̲̂͂̉͐̈́̈́̓̔̓̉Ę̵̨̤̜̘̠̃̉̀͂̿̓̾̉̓͝C̸̢͓͙̻͚̫̺̮͛̈́̐͒͋̏͝Ä̸̲̳̥̞̣̙́U̵̧͙̼̣̻͚̝̮̮̗̙̲͐͆̽̉̏͗̄͆̿̃̈́͛͘̕S̷̫̭͊̂̐̍́͆E̷̡̧̨̢̼̳̪̱̻͐̇ͅ ̸̳̬̝̗͕̲͎͔̭̹̺̯͑̆͛̊̒̐͠Õ̴̧̯͇͙͙̬̮̘͉̂ͅF̶̖͈̲̙̮̓̂̌̍̎̋̇̒̇̓͝ͅ ̴̝̯̜̟̲͂͋̈́̊̄̈́̈́̽̇̑̽̓͐͝Y̵̧̤̠͋̽͑̋̈́̑͒̓͋̀̊͝O̷̙͔̰̞͈̪̔͗͐̿̎͋͛̒̾Ǔ̸̢͚̯̹̬̞̼̮͍̻͙̰!̷̢͚̖̣̝̑̐͛̃͆̊̚

_stop it! this isn’t true!_

“̷̨̛͇͓̰͕̤̹̺̯͐̊̉̒̂̔̇͑͋̓̓́͊͝H̷̢͓̰̹̼̻̳̺̟͓͕̤͓̲͒͝ͅe̴̙̲̅̿̎͋̑͐̌̄̏̋̇͛͑̕y̶͈͂̿̏̃̅̊͋͘̚͘͠ͅ ̸͈̺̀̎̒̍͋́̂̄̽̇͠ÿ̴̗̗̺̞̬̦̜͈͈̱̟͂͜͠ͅǫ̵̲̻̬͈̼̰̼̣͎̣̟͓̆̓̇̎̂̑͠ǔ̴͎̰̮̱̟̳!̸̨̦̪̍̏̂̊̓̚͘͝”̴̛͈̭̙̺̝͔̥͎͖̱̮̍̆̿̀̈́̓̂̚͜͝ ̴̡̧̛̠͒a̶̢͇̙̐̀̄̈́͆̓̾̽͂̇̅̅͐͝ͅ ̵̢̧̛͖̰̻̝̗͔̗̱͎̰̮̒̋͊͊͑͗̈́͗̏̒̀͒͜͝v̷̨̥̻̞̣͇̳̉̌ȏ̷̲̖̺͆͛̐͂̾̉̾͠ĩ̸̧̧͖̼̘̹̳́̂͑͗͜͜͝c̶͈̠̰͉̹̘̣̻͖͎̓̊̓̕e̶̟͕̗͌̑̓͒͛͛̚̕ ̵͔̦̘̜̐̊͆͌͆f̸̭͎͂͝ṛ̵̟͓̱̤̩̻͚̥͉̗̬̣͉̓̽̄̈̋͐̕͘o̷̢̝̮̣͈̫̼͕̯̝͋m̸̗̔̄̆̋̕ ̸̗̖͚̬̹̺̱͒̋͝f̴̢̠͚̣͔͚̪̯͙̲͙̬̽̾̈̉̒̐̌̿̉̔͑̚̕͠a̴̗̮͍̖̿̕ŗ̷̨̟̜̹̞͚͍̭̘̎̍͌̍̉̐̋̏̕̕͠͠t̴̢̢͙̖͍̣͇̳̲̣̦̾̃͑̅̿͒̐͐̑̕ȟ̶̭̰͈̼̫̯̼̼̤͍̰̗̬̮̠ę̴̰̹̣͍͚̬̌̉̆͋͆̈̒͘r̷̨̘̠̖͙͎͚̪̙͎͗̌̃̈͝͠ ̵̛̤̮̘͕̖̺͋̉͛̏ͅȧ̷̧̢̡͇̳̦͔̤͇͓̪̺̻͍̭̓͆̆͊͆͗̇̓̅̚͝͠͝w̶̛̮̹̖͋̆̔͒͂͐̇͌̈́̽̕ā̴̢̺̦̝̝̩͎͍̻̞̲͉̑͛̑͛͆̈̾͒̀̏̅̆ỵ̴̟̹̦͉̩͖̱̗̘͒͂͛̀ͅ ̷͖͔̣̄͐̈́͘s̵͍͙͐͊̃͆͋ḫ̷͕̒̈̈́̂͗͂̓́̽̃̍̕̕̚o̷̢͓͚̘̰͇̔̀͘͝u̵̡̧̨̡̺͚̠̫̦͓̦̓͊́̈́̒͘ͅt̶̡̩͈̜͌̊̒̾͛̓̾͌̀͘s̷̗͇̙̖͕̗̺̗̼͍̲̖̙̲͊̓̉̂́̓̉͐͒͊̕̚̚̕ ̶̢̨̧̧̡̫̪͕̹̖̹̮̇̊̓͂͊͗̉͗̀̊i̵̠̘̞͓͈̠̗̙̩̤̱͑̿̒͋̽̏̍̽̈̄̚̚ñ̷̨͙̜͇̔̾ ̴̧͔̼̫͈͉̆̾̾̽͗̓̃̾̍̓̆͝o̶͚̞̖̰̟͎͊͂̏̈́͛͒̀̽́̏̓̇ȗ̵̢̡̡̥̼̻̟͍̪̥̰̯̼̝̇͊̔̏̿͑̀̆͜͝r̵̛̫̦̩͕̗̫̮̦͙͕͕̹̂̐̏͛̂̎͑̀͂̀͘͘͠͝ ̸̛̦̱͓̒͗͛̔̇͗̚̕͝ͅd̸̦̪͎̤͚̤̝̒͆̔̉̽͆̍̽̔͜͝ị̸̧͔̖̜̪̊̀̅̿̑̑̍̐̈́̐̓̚r̴̛̛̼͖̰̺̂̓̈́̒͌͌̌̚͠͝ę̴̢̛̛̺͎̮̞̘͆́͑̿̈́͂̽̒̕̚c̸̣̞̣̯̭͓̞͕̟̲̈̓̉̀̅͂͘͠t̸̖̼̃̃i̵̡̳͖̙̤̣̝̘̲̳̇̂̒̅͊̒̄͒̆͑̃̆͂ȯ̸̡͇̱̻̠n̷̨̧̪͋̽.̸̨̲̬̦̮̯̫͇̜̺̗͑͌̓̀͜

̵͎̖̞̣̤͐“̷͍̾̂͒̌̏̈́͘͝͝Ḧ̸̡̛̜͎͎̯̙̦͈̺̹̲͙̻̭͌͜͝u̷̱̿ẖ̸̨̗̳̞͇̪̹͈̭̻̥͆͒̈͐̏̀̌͐̊̋́̃?̷̛̛̛͕͕̓͆̾̇”̷͉̩̳̙̝̐̆͘ͅ ̸̡̯̲͈̗̳͓͖̠̟͈͕͔̤̽́̽̂E̷̡̨̯͎̟͆̊̾̐̅̀́̆̕r̴̡͖͖̞̥̠̘̺̣̥͖̲̈́͜ͅͅi̷̯̰͔͙̥̜̱̊̄̍̒̈́͑̈́͝͝č̸͓̫̗͎̤̅̊ ̷̢̦̣̗͉͎̓͛̓̌͑̅̌͌̽̕͘r̸̳̅̔̑̎̎̅̈̃͒͐͝ė̷̡̤̻̤̣̝͚̥̰͕͚̈͊͂͗à̸̢͖̳̥̰̎͋̌c̵̨̢̢͓̠͙̲̻͈̥͎̈́̎̈͒͒̈́t̸̡̛͍͓̣̯̬̂͐̌̈́̑s̷̨̨̢̻̘̜̣̻͇̤͎͇͉͚͊ ̵̛̲̝̩̞͔̼̱͈̞͖̗͔̦̥̅̏̾̚ḅ̶̤̤̖̟̽̏̈́ȩ̵̯͎͍̫͈̺̈́̉̽̇̓f̸̨͚̱̉̊̈́͌̈́̓̊o̸̧̠̦͖̬̜̱̺̜̼̫̩͗̈́͛̔̋̏͠r̴̢̢̛͍̖͉̠̼̞͔͚̩̖͋́̂͛͗̓̿̀͑͋͠ͅẻ̸̻̱͔̝̞͙̈́̂̂́̾͝ ̷͉̼̳͚̟̜̖̥̳̠̤̔̆̆̌ͅỈ̸̡̨̠̜̭͉̳̣̠̖̱̫͋ ̸̡̯͓͍̘̬̟́̈̓̃͊͠d̴͙̙̝̟̭̙͂̔ȏ̵̧̖̺̖̈́̓̍̓̒̾͝.̷̢̛̜̩̳̰̰̳̄̓̈́͑͋̋̉̆͊̾̚͜

̸̯̩̬͕̭̒̎̓͒̅̉̈́“̴͔̤͎̞͔́͒͘͠-̶̘̉-̶̧̢̧̛͉̥̣͎͕̗̬̺̜͕͐́̽̏͂̆̃̋̽̅͑̕͜͜͠͝-̸͔͙̹̈́̊͑̍͊̋̓͑͐̅͛̕-̷̧̝̯̩͕̦͚̱̹̞̂̈́̈́̈́̀̽̆͋͑̍͂-̷̧̡̭̟̖̗̜̞̣̯͗͗̏͋͑̊͝͝-̷̛̮̠̼͚̗̬͓̰͎̼͋̓̐̒͒̃̿̚̕̕͠͝-̴̡̨̳͍̖̲̭͎̤͔̄̈́̓-̶̨̛̙̘̻͉͓̥̠̱̙̹͉̣̎̎͋̂̓́̃̐͊̀-̸̧̧̱̩̟̣̠̜̺͔͇̺̤̅͆͌̋̈́̽̒͊͌̿̈́̚͘ͅ-̸̧̧̧͚̺̮̗̤̣͎̳͖̟̺̤̀̎-̷̯̽̑̇̅̌̅͂̈́͊̐͑̚͝-̴̻̜̹̘̮̂̃̌̃̔̏̍̎̏͘͜-̸̡͙̜͕͔͉̗͖̯̳̔̌̿̍̈́͜͝,̵̢̛̹̻̖̯̫̺̦̫̙̜̭̩̎̎͌͆͌̎̽͌̈́͒̈̕͝͠ͅ”̴̢̢͕͍͍̫̫̯̫̰̺̣̹̥̌̇̎̿̔ ̵̩͍̝̘̈̐̀́̓͛̅̈́̕͝t̸̡̩̹͔̱̦̬̙͚̔̈́͐̃͐͂͐͒̽͗́͒̕̕h̶̡́̚ḙ̴̪̐ ̸̲̯̒͆̈̂͗̈͐͜͜v̷̧̛̩̳̬̻̮̜̲̺̖̻̤̂̒̍̔́̉̐̀̑͘͜ơ̸̛̜̞͕̼̿̾͊̏̽ȉ̵̯̩͚͕̳̖͇͉̑̅͒̐̿ͅc̶͎̈̄̑̀͆̚͝ë̸̩̳͊̊͆̌̈́̎̀̕͝ ̴̛͚͕̜̩͉̖̜͓̰͂̔͆̐̈́p̶̥͇͔̤͜͝ͅę̴̩͓̜͖̖̜͍̃̅͋́͂̓̑̾̀͜r̸̟͇̈́̄͊͋̅̇̒́̈́̒̽͝t̷̹̙̘̮̮̠̥̜̖̝͓͎̞̏̉̈́͜ͅą̸̨͈͙̣̲̠͈̭̙̪̑̈̈́̈́̄̇̅͠i̷̡̢̩͔͔͉̬͙̱̤͍̻̖̱̎̍̋̒̍͊͒́̆̈̐̚͠͠n̷̦̝͆s̴̛̺̋̇͐͆̔̉ ̶̺̖̜̭̖͖̟͇̻̊̾̈̓̿̒͐̏͑̋̀̌̂̏͠t̸̛̬̮̩͕̓̊̾̈́̂̈́͊̀͠ͅo̶̢̜͖̘͎̳̲̻̽̔͂ ̶̢͈͎͖͙̖̖̤̥̗̠̺̈́̎̒̒͌̋̀̇͐͘͜t̴̢̢̛͈̙̬̝̳̘̣̹̬̮̼̊͗͌̓̒͂̀̏̓h̵̡̛͉̯̰̰̰͇͕̽̊̾̏͝͝e̶͚̠̩̳̺̙̹̙̿̄̐̉̈́̌̌ͅ ̸̢̧̢̡̥̣̥̞̳͙̫̠͈͈̜̐͛̾͘s̶͈͖̿͜͠a̸̧̲̭͉̗̗̩̬̼̬͔͐̑̍͛̇̉͛̓̎̂͜͝͝͝͝m̷̨̢̙̳̻͇͔̂̀̂̊̕̚͝ḙ̴̂̊ ̷̳̼̥̠̖̱͔͋̉͒̔͋͌̽̈́́͗͝g̶̛̛̙͖͕͈̻̻̟̖̪̒̐̌̎͒̑̆̆͝u̴̠̟̦̳͎͉͂͋̓̓̆̊̒̑͜͠y̵̢̢̥̰͕͚̫̗͔̻͐̄͛̔͆̋̋̕ͅͅ ̶̢̢̡̭̲̭̪͖̞̎̍̀̾͑̓̈́͛̏͘w̶͔̘͎̞̥̑̽͆͘̕͠͝ḥ̸̨̣̪̼͓̖̫̲̘̜̝̎̈́̆͗́̈́̃̍̀̽̈́̓̎͜͝o̸̢͔̼͕̰͈͍͎̟̮̹͕̪̼̅̐̓̏̈́͝͠ͅ ̴̢̹͉̟̮̙͕͖̩͎̟̽̐͊̅̿̃͊̚ͅg̷̛̰̿͑̒̒̏́͐̈̌̚͠à̴̢̫̪̲̟͖̬͉͔̞̏͜ṿ̸̡̼͚͎̮̙̰͎̦͔̳̌̆̑͐͂͋͌͜e̷̢̢̱̮̯͖̫͕̠̠͍͉͊͗̊̂͐̂̊̔̕͜͜͝ ̴̡̛̞̮͔͇͈̫͉͈͇̭̙͔̘̠̎̾̑̿̾̅̊͘̕m̵̰̰̲͕͉̾̂̿͊͌̾̓͛̄̂͆͜e̴̦͊̍͝ ̸̗̦̾͋́̈́̑͛͋ẗ̵̡̡͚͔̞̟̗̣͕̥̫̱̩̠́̏̉̑̉̀̿̂̈̈́͗͗͂̕ȟ̷̠̮̹͎͈̻̳̝̮͛͂̓͠ê̷̘͂̌̿̈́͒̂̈́̑͂ͅ ̵̨̧̨̲̘̟͗̔̑̑̃̐͗͌̈́̓͌̅̑̔͋ͅb̵̛̳̲̱̬̎͗̽̎͒͆l̴̢͉̺͉̞̖̲̣̘̝̭͈͑̑̊̅̈̓̂̈͝ͅã̴̧̨̧̫̤͕͍̹͈̭͍̽̅n̷̨̻̠̏͛̎̑̏̓k̷̛̦̮̟̥͚̒̽̊͆̎̉͆̃̉̽̓͠e̷̫̼͚̣̲̣̖̤̰͖̹̳͊̏̉̌̔͋̾͝t̸̨̘̞̬̬͕̳̦͉̥̘̦͈̰̑̒͛̅̽̾͝.̶͕̟͋

̵͚̫̬͈͕̦͙̪̭̤̮͐͋̈́ͅ“̸̺̺͙͇̅͛̎̎͆͜͜-̶̛̤̣̭̬̈́͆̽̍̍̎̍͋-̴̧̨͇͉̼͕̮̙̉̆̂͌̏͛̓͑̇̄̇̅͑̉-̵̮͍̭̲̤̭͖̬̹̻̣̖̈-̶̭̲̪̭̤̉̈́͒̌̓̏̅̑̊͑͌̓͐͘͝-̵̣̼̟̞̟̦̌̐̌̉́̈́͊̌̔̐̀̍ͅ?̷͔͈͖̟͙͔̄̇̉̓̀͑̈́”̶̨̢̲̝͇̩͖̮̩̘̦̞̹͚̿̎͊́͒͠ ̸̨͉̯̘͔̼̼̜͗̓̎̅̃̀̌͆͛̎E̸̡̡͕̱̳͈̲̅́͑̾͜͜r̶̪̺̪̪͖̖̣̣̙͙̭̓̉͋̎͛̌̅͘͜͜i̵͙͕̱̪̼͇̝̽͑̈́̇̓͝͝͝c̷̢̢̧͎͓̞̣̝̯̻̳̜̙̠̆̏͌͗̎́̈̔ ̸̧͖̺͇̬͓̺̫̰͖͔̘̬̻͋̑̉s̶̮͚̮̜͆̓͛̌̉̇̌̒̕̕͝w̷̬̪̱͇̯̞͘͝ỉ̷͕̺̠̘̣̞̺̮͕̌̓͛̋̀̏̆͋̒̈́͗̓̚t̷̡̡͖͙͎̺̺͈̣̓̃̓̽͌͘ͅc̸̛͙̝̮̰̬͈̲̑̈́̔̿͒̀̔̂̾͗̓̿̕ḫ̵̨̪̬̆̎̐̆̈̽͠ė̸̢̨̧̟̝̖̻́̔͗ş̷̢̢͇̮͕̣̯͇͙̦̭̬̭̊̓̊͂̓̄̉̃̇̒̍͘͝ ̵̘͝l̸̝̼̲̬̙̤̥̖̠̦̖̼͌̾̈́̓̈́̏̏̈́̚̕ͅa̶̱̳̝̰̩̩̦̝͙̗̳̪̣̫̽̽ͅn̵̨͓̱̥̜̩̩͔͛̅̅͛̎̆͋̇̔̇̏͘ǵ̵̖̫̂̏̔͆̅̈́ữ̷̬̼̻̩͚͚̱͉̹̜̳̎͂͛̌͌̅͊̕͜͝͝ͅͅa̴̦̞̼̤̩͔̯̜͎̝̻͇̠̓͛ͅg̸̪̦͋̒̏̇͊̽̽̐̕e̶̛̪̖̘͈͙͔̣͕͇̟̰̺̪͑͆̅̄͘͠͝ ̴̨̧̯̟̼̼̽̏̓̔͊b̶̨̢̮͚̣̟̙͔̩̻̜̱̻̔̊̐͌̓̊͌̕a̶̛̛͎̱͖̲̋̑̈́̽̀̊͐̆̕̚͠͠c̶̜̱̦͙̩̟͈͎̜̗̯̣͇̜̻̈k̵̠̲̬̟̗̳͂̑̕͠͝ͅ ̶̢̨̜̪͙̰͈̗͇̆̀̆̽̌̽̈́̍̉͐̉͌t̷̢̞̬̙͔̹̮̼̞͇̦͇̭͖̺͑͋͐̌͗͋͂̔̓͠ơ̴̛͕̗͚̥͕̜̊̈́̅̔̈́̽͐̾̐͠ ̶̺̱͉͈̭̍̿̂̉̆̅̔̂ḩ̶̯͕̠̫̻͒͒͛͒͑͊͗i̵̠̇̌̊͒̿̏͘͜͝ș̵̨̮̐͛̚ ̸̡̢̘̪̻̭̥̹͕̲̰̤͖͊͛ͅn̶̲̘̖̝̭̦̝̻̱̙̈́̏̅a̴̡̢͉͕͉̱̤̘̣̦̗͖̖̖͎̅̏t̸̨͇̹̳̻̮̠̠̫͎̱̬͙͈̔i̶̡͙͓̫̥̞̟̤̝͉̼͓̿̈̋̋͠ͅṿ̴̯͗̿̍͐̌͆̌͝͝ȩ̷̢̨̹̪̻̖̊̒̎̑̑͋ ̵̨̨̪̭̟̟̦̝̩̮͊̐̽̐̔͆̅̈́͊͘ͅt̸͍͆͑̀̌͊͆̈́̑̄̒o̶̰͚̫̱͊̆͂̓̇̄̽͒̏̽̃͒̌͘n̴̨̖͓̖͕̞̼̾̈́g̴̳̤̰̗̳̫͚̪͎͍̒͗̆̇͆͆̂̿́̚͠ǘ̴̖͖͖̻̠̮̑͠ͅë̶͎̭͓̼̝͔̰̫͕̥̬́̈́͜.̷̛̙̻̜̼̜̯͓̰̂̆̆̎́͐̋̈́̍̑͐̑̋ͅ

̵͕̣̰̬̭̜̤̮͌̈̀̒͒̋͂̊̔̍͂͋̓͘͝ͅs̸̛̟͖̘͕̻̦͙̪̲̊̍̏̈́̅̌̍͗͆̎͠ͅh̸̜̘̠͖̥̤̰̬̞̑͑̑̅̿ḙ̵̢̢̟̺͔͇̃̇̾̀ͅ ̴̟̻̂͗̏̑͠t̶̙̼̪͚͉͕̫͊̓o̶̡̡̞̲͈̦̫̮̜̟̟͚̞͆̊̽͒͛̈́̃̅̉̕̚͘ͅl̸̹̗̳̺̘̩̬̳̰̭̇̈́̊̍̾̏̃ͅd̸̨̡͓̠͔̗͖͑̂̍͌̿̇͌̓̄̓ ̶̭̞̪̰̲͐̇͆̿̈̓̎͠t̶̤̟͔̩̞̰̰̖̟̤͂̏̎̂́̈́͑͜h̶̢͇̳̆͊͘o̶͚̭̻̺͂̈́̂̏͋͠͝s̴̛̼̭̠͚̉̃̃͋͊́̀̈́̍̍̋̕͝͝ę̷̡̛̺̱̞̞̦̝͔̼̩̭͆̈́̈́̌̑̏̓̋̄̿͂͒͝ ̶̣̜͖͇̱̤̳̭̰̦̳̬͉̜̜̓̕l̶̨̡̧͈͔͙͎̮͈̥͔͉̇̅̎̃̏͝ḯ̷̢̩̜͖͗͑̊̕ĕ̵̳̼̬̮̤͍̼̰̤͈̩̪̥̋̚͜ş̶̜̻̫̙̺͓̫̀̉̎͌̓̂̐̐̌̋͊̀̐̒ ̸̞̎̊̍͑ẗ̷̨̳̣̯̞̞̠͕̖͓̼́̽͒͋͒͊͑͆͋͒͠͠ͅo̵̢̡͇̥̣͇̺̩̻̮̱͊̓͝ ̵̥̰̳͓̲̖̝͉̈́̉̀̄̅̑̍̀̕ͅy̴̯̣͌̓̓́̓̋̀͗̊͑͝o̶̡̝͖̜͔̘̥͇͂͂͆̃͗͐̿͘̚͘̚ư̸̧͔͖̘̟̣͍͖̼̟ ̷͓̞̯̪̯͆͋͆̉̑̈́̈́̽̕Ļ̷̜͎͕͇͈̥̬̟̓̾͗͐̇͗̋͒̓͘Į̴͇̰̓̊͗̆͗̑̇͊̕̚͠Ë̷̢̧̧͈̮̗͕͕̺͖͙̐̑̍̈́̈́̿͋̿̓͝ͅͅS̵͇͖͓̤̥̝͎̑̍͛̌͑̐̇̃̑ͅ ̷̻͓̑̏͋̄̓̀̓͆A̶̛̝̙͈̹̯͉̟̮̍̋̏̀͑͋͂̇͠L̴̛͙̩̳̝̼͇̰̖͉̮̹͇̣̜͂̄͒̓̆̒̒̐Ḻ̸͉̱̤͉̯͕̖̟͕̜̯̾̃͑̂͊̒͑̓̈́̇͊̌͜͜͝͠ ̷̨̡̦̖͙̖͓̆͋̈͘L̸̡̧͍̝̞̘̫͙͔̠̗͖̫̭̅̌̅͑̈̃͆̽͐͘ͅI̵̡͙̥̫͚̘̍̐̃̎́̋͊̎̋̇̚͘͝͝͝Ę̸̼̹̝͉̣͍̑̓͛̓̆́͆̂͛̋̌͝͝S̵̡͎͓̻̖͚̹̼͉͑̇͑̈͑́̂̅̑!̷͍̓̈̈́͒̈́̈́̈͝

̵̰̞̲̙̾̈͑̑̾͌̉̕͘͘͘͘y̴̠̹̗͔̼͉͙̙̱̰͚̹̍̚ő̷̢̧̗̮̫̰̻̞̯̣̣̭̿̍̌̋͋̃̀͊͠ư̷̯̟͚̯͇̙̟͈̼̜̄͒͐̆̃̚̚͠ͅ’̵̛̛͇͔̤̦̤̇͗̊̋̇̓̉̄͆̒ͅd̷̫̤̣̥̠͈̯̕͜ ̵̗͉͔̥̣̻͙̾̃͋̂̽̕b̸̛̛͕͇̞̖̱̱̌̓̒̉̓̇̍̉͜͝͝͝e̸̢̡̻̹͙̯̳̱̱͙̪͆͆̉͌̎̌̾͛̉̆͂̆͘t̸̛̮̯̖̝͔̩̣͍̥̳̍͂̐̅͊̒̈́̂͐̌t̴̨̢͖̙͖̙̖̥͍̬̩̠͓͋̈́̆͜͜ė̷̝̓̌͂̍̇͐̾͋̓̀̿̚r̷̛̲̩̹̤̼̤͇̖̩̈́͑̄̌̐̾͑͌̕͘ͅ ̵̦̲͐̍̅̑̈́͊͊̄͆̽̏̈́̕͝s̸͎̟̞̺̆̈́e̵̘͙̥̭͇̟̥͙̒̈́̐͑̏̈́̾̎̔̕͘͝ë̴͚̠̖́͒̑̑̑̂̉ ̵̭͕͔̤̹̐̑͂̋͌͒͐͐̀͑̐͌͆̈́͋w̷̧̳̫̬̹̙͎̗̣̼̿̏̀͐̉̚ͅh̵̢̛̝̱̥̙̖̪̥̝̓̐͗̎̓͂̋̚͜ǎ̶̲͍̼̭̞͇̳̞̮̤̞͙̌͂̑̈́͌́̾͗́͗̕͘͜t̸̼̳̜̜͉͇͒̄̍̋͊̂̅̑ ̶̼̹̞̖̺̙̿̆̔̉̐̇̿̽̉͐͂͗ͅy̶̧̜̱̠̱̌́̋̑͆͌̇͗̍͝o̶̧̧̙͉͉̖͔͓̺͔̓̊̉͛͝ư̶̱̮̒̑̉͑̈́̎ ̶̢͕̣͇̠͍̝̮̹̑́̍̏͜ĉ̸̢̡̗͕̠̙̦̖͊͒ǎ̷̗̠̪͗̉́̃̐͌̒̐̀̉̚̕̚ͅṇ̴̡̬̦͉̳̗̹͚̞̺̭͉̅͗̽͜ ̵̛͉̈́͛̈́͋́̉̐̂̈͗͊c̴̢͚͍̹͈̣͖̣͔̳̲̮̤̤̯̓̆͛̇̔̌̎͛̀͆̏͠͝h̶̨̗͑̇̿͛̿́̑̂̓̄͠ā̴̙̱̮͕̖̻̜͙̳̹̻̳̱̀͆̋̕ṅ̷̛̠̫̭̬͍̝̿̿̋̄̎͂͜g̵͈̹̝̙̙̤͚̖͋̍̀̌̇͛̄͝ͅȩ̶̡̰͈̣͎̬̺̔͛́͆̍̽̈́̑̈̊͘̚

̸̠̈́̽͝ï̵̭̖̗̜̑͑͐͆̍̍͊ ̸̡͙͉̗̥̣͚̦̜̮̍̄̏͂̄̓̄̌̃̈́͘m̴̠̝͓̬̮̘̩̫͛͋͑̏̀̾̊͌͗͋̅͘i̷͈͚̜̼̪̞̜̣͑̂͋s̶͕͈̹̓̋̿͌͌̈̅̑̕ͅs̵̨̺̫͍̖͉̺̥̥͑̌̍̏̒̄̎̈́̓̂̽̑ ̶̡̱̻̞͚̓̈́̿͛̏͒͆̓̉͌͊́͊̚̚͜ͅh̷̼̽̂̓͛i̷̢͇̰̣̘̘̤̟͗͑̃̉̊̀͑̚̚͝m̴̹̙̠̙͂̓̅͂̆̄̒̈́̽̉̋̓͝ ̷̦̼̯̱̲͂̉̆̑̇̑̐̈̍͠͝s̶̢̘̻̃̍̍͆̀͘͜͠ö̸̼̩̹̙̻͒͘̚ ̸̣͚̺̬̭̼̱͎͕͈͙̫̳̒m̴̗̣͍̑͒̑͘̚u̶͈͙̇͆̿̈́̿́̕̚c̵̡̛̩̺̳̲̘͎͈̈̈́͂̊̂̄͒̚͘͝h̷͎̩̙̖̮̟̦̪̣;̴̻̤̗̲̰̊͂͛̍ ̷̲̮̫͖̪͈̺̗͛h̷̹̣̪͉̊̄̈̉͂̓̋̉͋͐̈́̐͜ḙ̵̢͖̦̦̠̳̥̝̦͈͉̠̙̏͌̾͌̀͗̄̏ ̶̥͉̗̳̙̹̺̼̮̓̂̇̈͗͐̐̇̿̓̌͛̓̕̚w̷̧͚͉͈̬͉͇͈͕̬̼̠͍̖͓͑͌̿̃̕a̶̡̓̀̾͑̃͛ṣ̷̹̦̤̼̳̫̹̥̙̥̾̉̿̃͛̓͑̕̕ ̶͔̣̙̍͌̑̀͆̎̇̌̚͝t̷̢̡̟̩̖̣̼͇̊͋͌̚̕͜͠͝h̷̼̜͍̱͙̩̳͎̤͗̍́̌̔̏̅ͅè̴͇̫̱̳̣̼͉͎̂͋̊̂̽̌̇̾̕͝͝ ̸̱̞͉͍̠̣̻͇͗̋͋̾̿̃͜r̴̖͔̱͓̙̟̈́̉̈́̈́̇̿͛̎̊̓̊̄͘ȩ̶͙̐̅̔͌̓͊̅͆̄a̴̡̛͓͔̞̖͑̀̀̾͜s̸̡͉͋͗̿̿͆͊̍̂ơ̴͔͕̥̠̌̾͒͂̓͗̾̈̌͜͠͝ṅ̶̨̩͔̭̦̆͐̒̑̚͜͠͝ ̸̢̢̯̳̺̫̤͉͚̳̦̙̗̮̓͐͑͌́̒̔͠t̷̨͕̳͈̺͚͍̖̳́̈́̂̒̚͠͝ơ̶̧̡̢̖͈̭̯̖̘͉̐́̎̉̆̓̄̓̆̅ ̴̢͔̯̝̠͉̺͈̖̤̼̩̒̉̎͗̐̔̽̈́̐͘ĺ̸̨̙̟̟̬̤̘͙͆̀͆͌̒̈́̑̅̄ȉ̶̭̪͎͈͖v̶̛̛͖̠̠͈͉̠̳̳̈́͆̉̀̾́̐̾̈̏̌͝ͅȅ̵̢͍̉͌̅͛̏͗̿̍͑͝

̶̤͙͈͙̣̟̪̖̹͐̽̈͛̚ͅs̵̢̹̖̦̭̣͗́͒͒̊̉̓h̴̹̥̩̉̿͗̑̐͗̔̒̓̏̈͊͜͠͝ͅę̴̟̫̝̩͚̘̲̐̆̄̀̈́͂̔͐̈́̓͜͠ ̴̛̲̬̠͎͆̊-̶̨͉̼̘̭̞̇̌̆̏̇̄̆̀̎̕͜͝ ̸͍̺̤̦̜͌̃̍́͗͜ţ̷̛̜͍̹̫̪̭̑͊̔̉͊͘̕͠h̵̜̯̭̦̦̥͌́̆̊̏̋̕e̶̱̫͖̫̘̤̣̹̥̯͉̅͛͆̈́̒ ̴͔̪̃̅̒̋ȩ̵̫̭̘̥̑͆̆̓̀̐̾͒͂̂̚̕͠͠v̴̡̡̢͇̦͇̟̺͈̼͕͎̥͈̍̽̏̒͋̏̅̍̋̈̽͠i̵̢̤̝͖͇̦̋l̷̡̝̽̈́̈́͌̓̓̕͝ͅ ̷̢̗̙̼̣͍̼̤̪̗̩͈̔̋͘͝-̷̢̻̩͙̻͍͕͚̙͖̈́͛͐͆̉̉̈́̎̋̔̕̚ͅ ̵̡̦̭̭̎͆̓͌̄̃́͑h̶̭̙͓͓̮̲̠̜͍͚̻̩̫̗̋̋̓̓͊̒͐̐̌͝ͅa̶̡̨̦͇̗̼̤̹̯͎̥̬͍̜̻̾͆͋͒̓̓̄̌͑s̴̢̗̮̙̻̮̬̏͌̌́̈́̉́̽̎̄̕̚͜ ̸̛̖͙̀̒́̃̄̉͘͜͝s̴̛͎̮̜̬͈̥͗̆͗̓̅̋́͆e̶̝̹̍̽̌̎̊̈́̍̈̓l̴͎͍̐̈́̑̋̑͂̀̚͠ͅf̴̥̳̟͙̼̰͍͉͔̤͉͕̙̽͑̈̋̕͜͝͝ͅi̴̡̧͙̣̞͍̫͈̠̲̱̮͙̍͌̿͂̐̓͗̅͐̎̃̾ͅs̴̗̞̪̉̽̑̑̍̃͐̆̓̔͠͝h̸̫̦͔̥̅̉͒͊̚ļ̴̡̯͕̰͆̉̒̄̑̽̉̕͘̕ý̷̠́̄͊̓͛͌̏̊ ̶͔̬͆͐͆̍̊̌̉̆̂͆̾̿̋͘͜d̶̲́̾̍̐̎̒̍͑͑͛̿̏͘e̶̻̦̩̖̳̘̫̘̗͚͙̹̩̯̾͛͗͗̀́̿͝s̷͉͓̰͙̯̫͎̙̫̲͙̣̩͑̊͑̓̈́̍̍͆̊̚ť̸̛͎̭̯̦͈̰̪̿̍́̆͝ŗ̷͙̠̳̘̤͊͆̐͛̀̾͊̏̇̕͠o̷̡͕͓̺̳̗̭̻͖̬͖͐̋̒̉̀̊̕̕͜ͅy̴̛͚̰̯͍͚̲̻̤͖͊̅̈́̿̎̃͂̈́͠ȩ̶̭̝̖̯͈̳̪̌̅͐̽d̷̢̲̳̯̩͕̣̭͍̦̗̲̟̆͋̋̔ͅ ̸̢̥̠͚̱̃o̵̡̢̹̬̫̙̥͔͓̗͚̺̐̅̾̐̇͑̓̔̄̿̕ủ̴̙͔̯̹̊͌̈́̽͑̉͂r̷̛̳̱͕̣̘̤̤͍ ̸͍̲͉̬͍̗̻̳̈̈́̋̃̇͘b̸̢̢͈̖̰̼̰̩͎̙̼͎̂́̽̉̅̾͠o̷̡̧̳̥͍̱͕͎͙̮̠̽̌̈́́͆̈́̽̉̈́̈͊̉̚͠ṇ̸̠͗́͘d̸͉͍̆̔͐̋͊̄̇̋̊̚͠͠͝͝

̴̧̦͕͓͕͚̼̺̝̳̲̳̭̂͂͒̂̅̃͜ͅ“̵̡̖̺̫̜̜̼̾̍̄̄̈́̈́̎̀͐͑͂̇̕͠͠-̵̡̛͙̺͕̗̯̤͓̦̖͈̘̾̆̈́̂͑̆͐̓-̵̢̧͎̫̮̼̗͎͈̣̤͆͋-̸̧̩̤̜̱͇̘̜̦̹͍̈́́̃͝-̸̢̰͈̻̘̭̭̺̬̪̈́̊͒͠-̸̠̦̖̼̣̽̌̈̄̍̏͜͜͝͝-̴͎͇̂-̶̡̛͈͎̝̭̩͉̱͛̓̂̾̿͌̈́̏̓̃̂͗-̶͖͚͍̤͓͍̥̱̳̳̠̭̼͓͗̾͛̎̓̿̑ͅ-̷̨̧̢̠͍̩̺̜̲̯̋́̅̿̿̓̄̆͒̊͌͋͆̚͝-̶̹̱͚̜̫̯̂̂̒̄̑̍̕͜͜Rache-̴̞̣̹̘̻͚̙̥͖̘̠̠͍̗̄̅-̸͈̩͇̼̙̺̩͔͎̼̭̗̙̲͒̇̃̇̈́̓̏̇̅͑͘͝ͅ-̶̢̢̳̞͎̣͚͇̝̲͖̮̍̽̈́͗͋̏̑͝͠ͅ-̶̡̼̠̭̰̼̲̯͕͎̻͓̀͐͜-̸̗̫̹̫̯̖̱͔̱̹̣̔̏̆̉̅̃̓̃-̶̨̄-̸̼̘̻̙͉͚͔̪̼̼̳̈́̋̈́̉-̸̩̥̭̬̙̗̞̼̟͔͖̉̍̾͛̒̏͑̋̃͗͛͜͜-̴̹̹̪͒̔̈́͠-̷̫̥͛̓̊̀́́͝-̵̟̖̗̻̫͋̓͊̍-̶̪̩̹̫͓̱̼̝̩͉̖͜ͅ-̴̲̻̗̣͖̿̍̽̍̽̋̇͠͝ͅ-̷̈͊̔̃̑̏̌̔̎͜-̶͉̟͇̩̖̟͔̬͖̺̲͋̎̊̄̿̏̋̆̔̈́̓̄͝-̴̨̩̈́̾͌̏͌̈̊̇”̷͕̋͊͛̆͂́́̇͋͛͊̕͘͝

̵̪̪͍͒̂͐͆͌͗͌̍̉͛̕̕̚̕n̶̺̺̩͈̹̣͖͕̭͓̪̆̐͜ͅå̶̡̨̡̞̱̲̘͋̑̃̒̽͌͐̎̃͝͝͝m̴̢̡͍͇͈͉͇̙̱͗̄͑̇̒̐͘͠ĕ̵͈̹̳͚̮̪̱͖̺̝͔̼̜̝̍͋͛͜’̷͇͍̲̯̫̇͋̎̾͐͒͒̉̀̋͘̚s̸̢̛̺̝̻͇̫̤̠͔̼̘̝̰̉̄̀̃͊͗ͅ ̷̛̪̞̞̻̻͉͓̣̣̖͈̖̬̞̗͋̓͛̑̅́͊̀͘̚͠͝ revenge  
h̶̛̯̘̬̖̑̈͑͌̈́̿͒e̶̡̡͉̫͙͖̘͕̭̙̲̓͋̈́͗̆̈́͆̋̆̏̀̈́͝ͅä̶͚́̎̓̐̍͐̏̕͘r̸͈͈̠̓ḑ̷̻͇͓̩̹̩̞̱̙̱̒̑̽̏͐̓͜ ̷͉̪͕̦͇̲̞͇͙̭̪̺͈̱̻̓̅̓͒̚y̶͔͋̈́̾̒͆̔͠ō̷̡͖̙̱͎͚͍͐̓̈́͌̈́u̷̼̟̰͓͎͊̄̓̓̑͋̋̋̃͋̀̈́͝͝ṟ̵̝̻̍̄͛͜͝͝ ̶̗͓̙̻̟͇̤̹̦̜̾̃̍̆̈́̑̈́͐̾̔ͅs̵͍͎̘̼̝̘̈̈̓͋̐̇̏͐͊͂̓͝ͅo̴̡̡̯̝̯̹̼͚̪͕̮̹̗̟͛̓̇̀̓͋͊̈́̏̕ͅl̵̜̜̤̞̝͚̤͗̇̾i̶̖̝̤̤̔̀̔͂̃͠ļ̷̢̧̥̺̝̥̹̻͎͙̌͒ǒ̷̧͇̒̂͠q̶̧̡̼̈̒̌̾́͗̏̍̀̄̑͂́̒ư̶̡̨̢͔̝̞̭̘̣̲̅̽̑̿̅̂̉͛̉̏̋͘ͅy̴̡̡̝̩̝͎̺͔͖̙͖̼͉̔̏̿̊̄̅̏͝

̷̨̯̙̙̙̳̝̣̠͕͕̦̃͒̊̆̀̐̈͘“̴͇̣̳̭̑̿̌̃̾͑͘̚-̷̘̞͎̹̦̳̮̭̙̫̑͗̒͐̕͝-̸̡̛̰͔̯̬͎̜̼͕̉̈́̐̑̈͒̂͛̔͆̀̒͋͜͝ͅ-̴̦̺̠̫͓̘̻͎̳̳̌̿͆͌-̸̢̨͕̘̠̣̺̻̫͙̣̭̬̔̽̒͒̈́-̷̨̘̲̤̼̟͔͈̗̤̹͑͑͊̅̄̏͂͗̃̓̚͘-̵̧̡̦̦̠̣̣̰̫̤͍͔̟̲̾̽͜-̶̡̳̹̱̗͎͇̘̹̃̀͌̋͆̒͛̓-̵̨̹͇̼͂͊̎͋͗̑̋͆̾͝͠-̷̡̮̟͈̻͓͚̙͓͙̬̣̄ͅ-̶̥̇͒́̚-̷̨͍̩̲̦̖̦̣̜̼͇͆̀̆͜͠͠-̸̬͎̫̓̑̾̒̂͑̈̓͆̈͘-̸̻̪̬͈͔̤̠̦̐̀̎̽̐̄͐̿͐̔͂͘̕͜ͅ-̷̨̡̛̫̤͉̹̫̜̫̮̌͊̏͌͂̔̆͛͋̒̕̕-̸͈̻̥͕̺̻͍̼̓̽̎͌̅͌̉͋̈́̆̀̐̍̾͠-̴̛̛̮̥͇̙͗͑̄͑̍̃̋͜͝-̵̮̝͔̟̦͓̠̦̝̫̗̹͓̈́̿̃͋͋̃͗̃̉͋͆̈͐͝-̴̘͂̾̋̏̃̑̽͝-̵̨̻͔̹̬͈͒̒͂-̴̩̦͖̦͙̯͔͎̙̺̙̩̏̓̀̿͌̅̓͗̿͑͐͊͠-̴̛̲̱͖̭̲̈́́̀̅̏͐̅̌̕-̴̧̡̛̥̞̻̟̪̺̥̺̟̙͔̙̰̋͒̇̿̉̋͛́͂̊̈́͘͠-̵̨͎̠̙̜͔͇̥̳̳̗̹̠͙̀͊̆̉͗̕͝ͅ-̵̛͉̲̥̯̯̞̣̩̺͋͋̍̓̾̂̕̕̚͝-̸͇̩͖̮̼̇͜-̸͉̾̽̐̿̓̍̈́͒͐̈̃̌-̶̡̛̯͈̰̺̻̝̥͌̎͑͂͑̇̈́͒̈̚͘͜͜͝-̴̖̣̝̠̖̩̪̎͛̆͑̃͒͋̎̽̀͘̚͘͜͠-̵̧̡̡̙̪̰̀̈̾̔̾̔̑͘̕-̵̣̠̊͌́͑̑̔̍̐͊͗-̷̡̧̣̱͔͔̦̗̥̑̃̉̽̒̂̐̍̕-̶̻̼͖̮̩͛̅͛̉̌̈́̊̄̃̈͜͝-̷̘͖͎͕͙̟̺͎͔͉̏̃̚͠-̵̡̢̨̝̗͙͎̠̻̦̖͓̗̻̳̓͑̈́͐̅̉̒-̷̡̡̢̣̟̖͍͎̳̤̠̞̱̖̍-̸̨̛̮̱̜̭̹̦̼̮̈́̌͑̆̀̾̇͆̐̚͜͜-̵͙̝̻̙̙́͆̋̓̐̽͊̔̿͂͐̾̆̕͝-̷͔̝̻͈̪̉͆͛̈́̈́̋͑͒̆̈̄̕-̴̡̧̢͙̪̱̜̬̖̥̰͂̂̈͝-̷̧̥͖͉͍̼̤̖̺͓̾̊-̵̧̛͓̠̲͈̋-̵̨̧͙͎̦̩̹̩͈̔̿͑̋̏͘͜͝-̸̣͇̫͚̎-̶̘̋͑̈̓-̶̧̩̞̣̖͓̠̙͖͍͕̞̕-̶̝̋̇̋̿̓͐̾̃̕͝-̸̳͎͈̊-̵̣̖̪͙͎̱̘̱̉͋̅́͒͛̎̃̾̉̑̎͝-̵̯̻̻̦̫̹̿̎͆̄̿̍͆̀̆̑̆͋̽͆-̵̼͓͙̣̉̈͜͜-̷̧̖̹̻͈̫̬̫̗̠̯͖̳͔̥̽̅̾̐͌͆-̵̢̛͖̣͈͓͈̹̫͈̯̗͑͂͒̇̂͐͋̃͘͘͜͠-̷̧̡̧͉͔̬̫͍͙̻͇͖̩̲̭͑̍̒̊̒͂̈́̑̄̿̈̏̑-̴̧͕̼͍͉̪͕̻̫͚̼̝̻̒̿̍͆̇̈́̊̕͘̕͜͝͝͝ͅ-̵̨̠̹̹̳̣̒͑̓͠-̴̧̤͖͖̠͕̟̘͈̰̂̈͐̏͗̎̋̿̍̍͜-̵͙̮̲̓̓̄͊̉͂̔́̒̃̉̚-̵̧̛̛͔̲̠͍̼͖̱̞͔̯̤̥̤̈́͊̈́̽̉́̓̊̅͗͐͝-̴̝͙̬̟̝̘̮͛̈́-̸̫̥͔̞̟̞͍̳̱̔͗́͆̍͋̚͠͠-̴̨̛̘̲͚̺̳͕̟̬̱̎͐̅̈̆̔̚ͅͅ-̵͙̹̦̺̠̲͖̝̔-̴̯̖̘̳͍̊̓-̷̨̺̞͓̰͓̱̰̦̄̓͋̒̒͜-̴̡̤̩̻͎͖͖̯̮̣̺̝̃͐̽̈́̾͝͠-̴̡̨̡͓͚̫̻̤̪̮͙̞̈́̽͐̍̇̽̎̾͗̚͝-̸̢̨̨̢̢̛͇͎͉͕̩͚̤̻̭͕̾̊̒͒̐̈͒̒̄̀̇̕͠-̶̳̬̺͇͎̮̹͛͌̐̔̽̑͠-̵̪͙̼̙̙͚̩̭̏͌̿̎͜-̴̧͖̮̲͖̦̳̞͉̟͇͇̓̚͜ͅ-̷̨̧̧̮̣̤͍̒̉͌̃͐̄̋̄̂̚-̶̢͓̜̘͖̻̣͒̓̈́̈́̿̃̓-̵̢̛̬̱̤̙̹̻͚͌̀̾͌̓̒̀̾̚-̴̨̧̛̬̫͖̮̺̦̬̞̭͚̻̩̲-̶̨̧̢̮̖̮̻̬̝̼̹̠͖̜̳̏-̶̜̊̈́̊̎͌̄͊̂̈͗̏̐̏-̷̨̛͖̟̥̩̟̬̠͂͆̒͊̓̓̈̃̈́̚͜͝ͅ-̶͓̰̈́̌̾̾̉̆͒͑̽̆͆̾͊͝͝-̸̭͍͎̥͉͇͚̳̲͕̘̥̹̺̼̓͋̐͋̽̋̇̇-̶̮̞̈́̓͑͒̉-̶̹̠͖̘͚̩̈́̅̀̈̾̃̿̑̉̉̔̾̇̽̋ͅ-̷̖-̸̢̭̺͔͇͍͍̪̬͔͎̳̗͍̘͑̐́̈̎̽͋̅̒͋̃͠-̷̝̦̩̠͍̹͖̠̰͔͆̈́̂͌̚͝-̵̢̞̼͓̯̞̥̞͚̮͚̣͐͜͠-̷̳̆͊͛̐̿̈́͘̕͘-̴̢̩͕̈͋̓̄-̶̞͒̕-̶̮͉̓̈́̾̎ͅ-̴̧̛͕̮̉̾̅-̶̨̻͍̾̐̐-̴͇͇͓̖̘̣̍̆̓̉̀̐̚-̴̻͒̔̾̔̽͆ͅ-̸͙̣̯͓̩̫̗͔͎͍̰͚̗͖̓͂̊̅̾̔̃͋͐̋͠-̵̳͕̔̾͌͑̓̓̂͘-̴̢̡̪̼̞̝̤̤̟͕̝̮͚̫̂͂̈̋̓͐̔-̶̧̥͉͚͚̟̣͍͕̻̣̰̃̈́̎͗̋͗̊̔͂̃̕̚͝-̴͈͖̅̆̒͛̇͊̎̒̊̉̄̀̾̆̚-̴̧̢̱͓͍̟̜̺̩̤̬̎̐ͅ-̸̢̨̛̛̜̼̭͔̞͔̠͈̠͇̈́̿͛̊̆̏̌͗̚-̸̡̛̮̬̯̟͔̹͈̲͙̰͙͇̔͒̋͒̄̑̓́̓̈̉́͜ͅ-̶̫̔̅̏̈͒͒͆̐͊̑͛̃̃͝-̷̹̺͔͉̭͇͙̙̞̟̝̟̝͇͊̈́̅͌̈́͊̍̅̄͠-̶̧̢̨̧̼̲͖̹̣̫̭̼̞̤͙̈́̚-̸̡͚̜̳̘͍̞̣͈͔̺͂̿̃̈́̋͘͜-̸̨͇͖̟̥̾̓̑̉̅̈́͂͑̉-̸̣̼̙̜̰̩̗͚͉̺̱̥̩̏̀͑̑̇͋̓͛̋͗͘̚̚̕͝-̶̗̘̘͔̗͓̖̘̤̬̹̪̌̇͜͝-̵̧͍͈̦̙͔̫̯̮̩͇̱͛̄̓̈̐̓͒͜-̶̲͇̭͍̒̇̒̋͌̊̃̉̅͂̈́-̵̢̢͈̦̩̦͈͇̲͙̜̞̼̭̾̿̊͜͝-̴̢̢̻͆̓̓̈́̆̆̆̓͝͝-̷̡͇͇̦̫̄̒̄̈́̆̈́͋͘͠-̵̨͕̞̳́͂̋̒̕͘-̶̛̫̳̝̣̅̾͊͒̇̇̇͒̚-̴̡̙̳͎͓̠͔͎̏̿̍̀̇̇̊̽̓̚̚̚-̶̡̰̥̞̰̼̩̪̬̣̟̜̏̔̃͂̈́̓̑̓̉̅̌̈͠͝-̴̢̦̟̟͈̘̰͉͕̺̹̄-̸̯̙̩̯͐̌͌́͒̕͝-̶̗̆͝͝-̵̧͚̙͖̲̟̤̩̹͛͌͂͗̚ͅ-̶͔͛̆̏̀͛͑̎͊̂̌͘͜͝-̸̨̛̖͓̭̗̟̫͉̗̊̓̋̏̉̆͛̀͛̂̅͐̕-̷̫̱̬͓̞̘̳͓̲͙͓̃̓̓̽̒̈̓͆͂̿̐͋̈̅-̸̼̥̌̈́-̵̧̞̩͙̮̦̪͓͖̅-̴̢͖̯̺̜͉͙͎̎-̴͍̟̗͙͍̘̽̾̉̄́͛͐͘̕-̵̭͉̋́͆̈́̚-̸͈̫͉͔̳̭̠̞̘͔̟̞̰͔̒̓̆̓͝-̴̨͇̙̓̀̏̾̀̌̓͗͘͠-̴͈̙̌̅̏̎̾̾̉̆͝-̶̜̖͎̅͐͆̈́͘-̴̧̻͎͈̙̮̈́̑̊̿̇̅̾̔̌͝-̷̹͓̫̓̐͗̎͂̌-̸̝̳͚̹͙̱͙͎̗͈̍͌̓ͅ-̴̨̧̡̗̝̱͔̩͉̇̏̐̈́͋̊͛̒̈́͌̂̑̍̚-̴̛̫̺͉͇̎̀̑̅̿̀̄͝͠-̴̨̳̐̏̏̕-̷̛̦̩̰̲͍̩̭̉͌̆̓̅̏̾̐͂̈̍͆͜͝-̵̙̰͊̂͗̎̄͑͝-̴̢̛̥̬̪̯͉̝̃̈͆̂̄͆͛͑̚͘-̸̹̼̦̪͖̬̘͉̘̟͊͝ͅ-̷̛̰̙̦̣̼̣̑̋͂͂̊͐̔̓̑͝-̸͚̗̜̗̭̫̃͑͐ͅ-̸͍̐̍̋̂̐̈́̊́̐͘̚-̷͉͐͊̉-̴̨̙̗̘͔̤̺͍̰̞͗̓̈́͜-̸̙̽͛̆̑͆̂̇͂̈́-̸̧̧͈͔͍͇͇̤͉̭̳͉̯̝̀̅͝͝-̴̖̭̥̺̝͔̍̿̈́͗͌̚̚ͅ-̶͉͔͇̙͚͍̩͓͖̰͆̈͛͆̒̋̀̂̐̎̆̋͘-̵̧̮͍̦̄͂̃̐̄̋͌̔̂͠͝-̸̧̣͚͈̰̍̾̆̀̃̉͘͘͝͠-̶̢̟̣̙̒͊͑̉̔̒̍͐͝-̵̡̧̪͖̗͍̪̤͇̑̎̂̈̈́͒̄̈͑̈́̊̓͑͝͝-̵̟̭̉̿̂̈́̄̓̉̊̏̔͘͜͝-̷̢̠̳̰̗̫̥̏̏̊̌̈́͜͝-̵̛̱̩̯̂̍͊͑̏̽̓̋͐̐̕͝͝-̸̡̺̥̻͕̱̝̟̿͗͘̕͜͜ͅ-̶̡̧̛̦̥͖̫̙͓̰̖̬̺̣͉̎̈́͆̄̊̕͝-̴̨̨̮̲̪̳̰̬̣͓͎̹͖̽̎́͋̿́͊̀͘-̸̛̟̜͔̎͗͌̄͂̌͊́-̶̨̗̝̲̬͉̫̟̹̻̱̤̈̐̓̏͒̽̐̉̐̓͘͝͠-̷̟̝̞̖̩͕̝̯̹͜ͅ-̶͚̫̜͎̗̫̦̗̻̺̋̏̎͊̈́͋̈́́-̵̱̦̘̼̣̮͕̮̈́͋̓̌̇͊͊̅͑̑̒̕͘̚-̶̨̨̡̦̞̬̘̯̱̺̗͉͍̘̒͒͝-̸̬͚͊͜͜-̴̢͓͚̤̂̋̎̄̑̿̒̒̈́͂͘-̶̧̡̫̪̣-̴̨͇̱̺̙̮̮̺̬͖͑̓͌͐̂̾-̵̛͕͚͕͈̣̭̂̈́͊̂͑͗̅̄̅͊̚͝-̶̛͉̙͇̮͎̭͂̿̽͂͒̊̎̿̌͑̓͘͝-̶̙͓͎̈͋̐͂̌̊̑-̶̹̩̠͇̮͎̮̣͈̻̘͈̱̺̒̈́̇̈́̅̎̓̄-̴̭͚̹̣̠̤̠͈̰̮̆̅-̶̧̨̛̣̥͎͎̖͍̮͖̜̙̾͐̔̽́̿̇̓̿͑-̶̧̛͈̮̥̯̯͎̬̞̂̎̋̆̃̆͛̓̑̃-̶̱̤̑-̵̡̢͚̻̞̯̣͎̗̲̀̈͑̉-̷̡̱̠͉̝͙̗͌̄̿̿͗̂̆̃̇́̽̉̚͝”̷̡̱͍̻͓͕̣̹̦̥͔̺̓̋̉̈́̉͝

̶̖̼̩͇̗̘̮̠̪̠̫̲͂̓͂̏͑̑̌͗̋̚͜͠ͅl̸̛͖̝̝̭͚̥͓̎̇̑͗͘ȉ̵̬̺͓̊̾̔̓̽͒͗̈́͗̌͝s̴̨̛͔̭̫͎̜̮͎͇̻̀̽͑̎̈́̚̕͠͠t̵̥͙̭͇̯̻̣͈̘͙̜̿̅̂̇̈́̋̕̚͜ę̴̝͈̼̣̱̮̺̳̱̼̈́̑̂̂̑̅̿̍͑n̷̨̧̛͎̟͔̫͉͔̂͗̍ͅ,̶̖̏͝ ̶̛̹̻̗̉̈́̒̿͂͐͛̄̀̔̓̇į̷̡̣̬̪̟͙̞̥̲̒’̵̪̰̬̯͈͇͋́͑̈́̋̇̇̔̐̏̚̚͝͠v̶̧̱̝̲͓̲̜̜̳͈̼̍͐͌͂̚ͅe̷̠͍͝ ̴̱̏̋͜ş̸̥̯͙̲͈̭̜̯̿͌̌̍̋̚e̸̘̣͎̺̖͇̱͓̰̗̋́̔̓̐̈̾̓̐͒̚͝ȅ̴̡̨̛̺n̴̛̦̫͚͉̮̠͈͙͈̂͊̈́̂͒̈̎̃͒͋̊̚͜͜ͅ ̸̨͔̝̞̪̱̞̻̜͖̩͜y̴̛̖̮̣͎̲͚̘͖̥ó̵̢̲̭̦̗͎̺̰͙͙͙͚̅͋̄̋̇u̸͇̱̺̪̐̏̓̈́̈́̄̒̒̄̀̏̔ ̶̱̱͙̜̻̏̆̎͜e̸̛̯̣͕͊̊͒̑̈́͒y̵̡̧̛̥͓͉̹͙̺̟̹͖̲͖̓̊́̐̈́̚i̷̡̙̝̤̦̦̲̭̰̓́̔͑̿́ñ̴̜͖̠̝̝̼̂͛̅̅̾͂͘͝g̷̡̧̛̗͚̝̩͍͚̖͓͙̞͆͋̌͐̍͑̏́͝ ̸̢̙͚̠̼̠̠̜̙̞̯̝͚̲̈́͛͗̄̐̋̌̆̽̑̂̔̌͘͝N̸̻̩̜͔̯̭̦̻̭̳͔̥̆̌̽̀͌́͆̿͐͘̕Ỏ̴̧̰̩͓̭͓̦̼̲̤̟̖̣̯̃͊͗̆͂ ̵̠̺̼͓͔͙̖̣̳̯͊̈͊̇O̷̟̜͍̼̟̲̰͖̝̦̝̗̾͋̆̉̐͝N̶̹͋̊̏̊̐E̴̹̱̲̣͇͋͌̒͛̈́̉̕͜͠ͅͅ

̵̛̞̣̫̮̪͖̗͈̻̠̞̩͖̗̓́̂̓͌͂ͅa̷̡̻̺̮͗̈̌͋͑͐̀̓̊͊̾̃͝͝r̵̛̤͗̈̓̔͝e̴̟͇̠̪̖͖̾͋̈͌̀͐͐͋́̌̐̽͋͂͜ ̸̢̛͔̰͓͖̼̫͎͖͒̈́̄̔͘ͅy̶̛̹̮͊͐͌̅̉̃͊́͆͑̀̿̒͝ͅǫ̷̮͍̞͕͎͇͛u̶̡̥̫̣̦̼̩͈̩̮̫̮̒͆̇̀̏̃̅̈́̓̊̈́̈́̃̏̕ ̴̡͚̣̣̹͎͉̝͉̙̘͒̉ͅs̷̮͙̬͍̞̰̔͆͂̄̓̓̈́͂͊̈͝͝ụ̵͈̺̹͖͔͖͎͐̂̉͛r̷̢̨̭̺͉͈̲̈́̓̏̈́̉ȅ̴͉͔̘̯̱̗̖̳͔̌̅͐͆̎̄̂̎ ̵͉̪͓̻̠̏͋̈́ͅâ̴̛̫͐̈́͛͊̌̾̚͝ ̷̛̣̘͔̖̠̹̜͐̔́͐̓̒̀̑̾̚̚͘N̸̪͎̍̇͆͗́͊͝O̸͙̹̘̲̞̘̯͈̾̍ ̵͖̼͓͈̟̻̱͇̪͉̀̄̊̉̌̿͘Ǫ̷̞̎͝N̷̢̢̛̲͎̦̗̯̣̜͖̓̍̉̿͂̓͑̚͘͝͝ͅĒ̵̡̨͕̲͔̭̰̟̗̞̤̼̗̍͝ ̸̡̖̙̠̼̣̦͈͎̗͔͙̇̓̂͐̿͒̕ͅi̴̗̥͑̓̎̈́̂̾̚ś̷̨̬̝̻͚̦̯̣͓̭̪̼̬͚̽͊̽̉ ̸̢̛̛̬͑̋̏̒̒̅̈͋ͅy̵̨̘̳͇̻̟̩̖͛̄́̿̃͊̊̐̈́̚͝ơ̷̧͚̖̐͌̈́̀̚͝ư̵̯͖͒͛͂̈́̈̿͗̚r̵̮̠̪̃̈̔̀̿̍̉͊͌͠ ̵̼̠̟̒̎ṫ̶̫̱̩͍͔̯̭̣͉̇̔̄̑ỳ̶̡͔̭̯̹͋͗̐̓̏̂̂͑̌̿͒͂̊p̷͈͛̓̑̍e̷̜͈̲̗̱̰̥̹̐̐̾̐̂͝?̴̨̨̪̰͖̻͈̼̺̺̆̐̏̋

̶̢͎̫͙̬̳͎̦̜̤̦̱̭̈͑̉̉̒͆̒͛̆͒̕͜ͅÎ̵̛̭̮̪̯͓̣͉̗͍̭͈̼͒̒̆͐͋͜ş̵̛̹͍͖̭͉̠͎͋̽̅̽̈́̽́̅̐̕͘͝ ̴̛̦̙̰̞̯̘̝̗̗̰͌͂̌̽̉̎̉̍m̷̛̜͂͌̔̍͋̂͗͛̈́̃̓̓͗̚ÿ̸͖̣͈̲́́͒̋̅͒̃̊͆̚ͅ ̶̡̬̩̼̱̣̙̬̻͇̩̥̠̱̒̃̅͛̓̉͗̓̑͠͝ͅh̶̪͍͙̯̳̥͔̘̭͌̐̋̈́̇́͐̍̚͘͜ȩ̵̜̳̥͊̽̈́̉̈́̀͛̓̂a̷̙̥̬̓̈͂̓̅̊̌͘d̷̻̻̼̳̜̞̯̩̪̾͆̄̍͐͜ ̷̫̗̖̝̮͔̹̮̰̙͓̈́̄̉̉̿̊̽͗͑ŗ̶̛̭͔̳͈̩͈̻̯̞̬̥̬̺̎̎̔͊̏̇͘͜e̴͖͈͍͑͒̆͊ţ̸̢̹̞͍̰̲̮͓͙͐̎͆̿̓͘̕͝ȑ̸͉̫̲̔̽̾͗̈́͝a̶̱̤̟͔̠̘̯͔͆͆̊̔̊̾̃̆͊͜͜ṇ̸̜̱̰͙̟̗̼̓̿͜͝ͅs̵̢̧̛̝̯͎̻̤̳̳̥̪̘͛̓͊̾͆̈́͝͝ͅl̶͉͇̩̫̬͔͖̣͊̒̽̒̒̊̋͝͠ă̵̙̙͍̭͖͔̳̦͉̰͇̦̆͒͑̐͛͘ͅt̵̢̛̩̝̦͔̫̱̯̙͖͔̓̃͗͒̾̆̊̓̌͑̓̉̃͠i̴̙͋̑n̵̬͚̖̹͚͖͙̜̹̮͈͈̰̉g̵͚͓̼̮̫͓͙̬̪͎̰̟̤̦̓̆̑̄̿͘ͅ ̶̡̮̬̱̭̹̀̂͐̽̅ț̸̨̨̪̥̳͉̗͖̺̮̺̈́͐̾̉͆́͊͆̌͒͘̕h̴̡̡̛̠̬̰̯̱͎͂̀̃͐̉̑̿̕͝ȩ̴͇̦͔̺̓̈̔̆͐̍͒̂̌ĩ̵̪̖̑̇̐r̸̨̡̰̟͙͓͍̖̬̠̳̥̒̐̑̅̄͊̾̕ ̶̜͛̃̆̅̈́͂̑͠ç̶̨͙͉̼̪͉̜͇̲̤̪͊͑̒̉͒̓̓̈́͊̑̎̌͠ȯ̷̼̻̓͝n̸̡̛͎̠͓̹̩̖͖̤̥̺̫̈̊̾̽͝v̸̢̡̘͔̼̪̺̣̙̤̓̑̉̔͗̈̓̀͂̽͠e̸͖͕̠̠̭̭͋̊̔́̌̾͒̂͝͝͠r̷̮̙͚̓̓͆͝s̵͕͖͍͖̈́͗͂͛̈́̏̄̃̍͒̚͝͝ą̶̧̛̻͉̖̳͐̾͑͐̍̔̎̿̾͘t̴̟͕͕͍̩̹͍̫̭̉͐͜í̸̠͔̤̣̥͙̼̟̫̃̑͂̚͜ͅͅö̷͓̳̬̙͚̣́̊̌̄̃̎̈́̏̊̌͌̂͒̇n̵̡̗̗̙̺͎̈̀̈̑͐͆̏̃̾̽̕͘?̶̡̪̠̲̗͑̽͆

̷̧̟͔̠̪̗͇̰̘̹̥̬̖̕̕ͅͅw̸̛̪̹̔̋̀̑̑̑̾̀͐̐̀̕h̵͙̔͑̈́́͋̃͊̆͠ơ̴̢̛͓̰̺͙̹̦̲̯̩̟͇̣̓͐̏̓͛̌͑̂̎̿̕̚͜͠m̶̩̠̩̼̓͂̂͛̈́̄͂̓͠ ̵̡̡̢̺̬̟̗̱͕̻͓͈̿̈́̇̑͑͛͜͝͝ŵ̷̡͈͓̲̥̗͖̙̏́̊̈́̃̀̈́͛͘͜ͅi̸̢̧̩̳͖͈̰̦̊̓̍̒̃̐͌͂͘l̴̨̩̥̣͓̭̺̗̲̝̤̳̦̋̅̀͆͋͌̔̒̀̚͝͝͝l̸̨͚̯̊̐͆̐͗̀̀͋̈́̕͘͝ ̶̧̢̘̝̰̩̞͙̥͖̘̳̪͎̪̒̉̃̎̈́̊̂͋͆̚͝͝͝͝y̶̧̻̬̖̗͓̠̑͘ͅơ̵̜̥͙̣̟̙̯̪̻̪͙͚̍̇͋̅̑̏̅͑́͜u̸͓̙̬͓̞̾͑̅̀̓̔̑͂ ̷̨̩̼͙̙͉̯̟̘̝͕̼̈́̽̈́͑͂̍̒̽̒̎͘͘͝ṱ̸̬̭̦̭͖̬̝̱̻̜̦̦̔̐͋͗͊̋r̶̢̭̩̲̍̏̎͌͐̏̄u̴̧̫̣͍̾̽́̽͘͘ŝ̶̛̤̫̜̻̈́̎̆̐̅̎̄t̴̠̦̱͓̜̬̰͉̠̻͕̺͕̄͗̀͐͜ ̶͍̠̳̮̜̤̹̭̺̤̰̱͕̤̝̀̎̌͆̂͊̅̌̑͐̅̈ṋ̵̨̛̮̉͗͗̈́̂ơ̴̧̢̨̙̗̺̪̖͔̜͚̰̯͒̅̎͗̀̾̽̿̽̆̀͐͘͝w̷̲̲̻̻̥̮͇̪̼͙͙̭̦̉͜?̷͈̙̂͆̈́̒̓̍̊

̵͓̊̽w̴̧̡̺̖̙̟̣͇͙̭͌͐͊̊͝ḩ̷͈͖̦̥̩͔͇͈͔̤̙̖̩͕͂͛̏̎́̽͝o̵̡̧͇̳̖̰̪̘͖̍͐̆̽̉̍͊m̶̧̦͓̝͕̾̅̀̍̏̅̕͝ͅ ̷̧̨̥̪̞̥͌͆͗̒̄̉̓͋͌͘ẅ̴̧̜̻̙̪̥̞́͐͒͆̀͗̌̓̏̍͝ǐ̵̡̛̥̖͈͈̥̜̖͉̥̗̋̾̌̈̕̕l̸̡̮̲͙̫̪̳̺̦̙̹̗̦̠͐͒̃̕ͅl̶̢̛̼̠̟͐̔̃̀̃͛̇̚ ̷̛̦͓͍̬͇͚͔̐͆͐̉̀͗̃̐̑̾̚ͅŷ̸̨̛̠̟͓̻̣̺͙̹ő̶̢̹͎̰̤̠̯͖̫̣͎̤̭̆́̈͌̇̓͝ͅụ̸̡̺̈́̿̊͂̂̆͌̎̌̂͊͘ ̸̙͇̙̞̟̈́̈́̔l̶̤͇̮̽̾̋̿̑̓́͑́͒͝ì̸̺̗͙̲̤̦̼͖̠̳͙̦̉͌̕̚s̵̡̞̼̫͚̝͔̹̙͉̣̺̳̯̤͑̈́t̵̠̮͋̊͑͜ȩ̵̣̮͔̺̱̖̣͉͂̈̈n̶̗̺͊͋̐̇̂͋̋̿̽̕͝ ̸̲̓̈ͅt̸̰͚͊͑̈́͆͛͒̐͗̽͛o̷̻͚͖̼̝͔̹͗͌̋̇̎̆͗͝ͅ?̴̭̦͔͚͍̱̟̩̫̐̇̄͌̃͌ͅ

̷̧̜͇̙̭̼͚͇͉͇͙̻͛̐̓͑̆̅͌̒̚ṱ̶͉̓͋̊͋̆̄̊͘͘͘͝o̷͎̺̖͖͍̝̪̊̈͘ ̷͖̟̇̄̿̒̑̿̇̑̍̚͘͝͠ẅ̷̧̬̝͓͙̭̩͙̳̬͓̙̖́̒͒̉̂͜ḧ̶̛̛̜̱͙͈͉̼̯̣͊͐̑͋̇ȏ̵̧̈͗m̴̼̻͙͙͎̱̺͎̟̐ ̴̘̠͛̑͘ŵ̵̘̠͕̞̥͎̣͔̰̓̋̏͝i̷̦͙̔̌̓̄̎̌̏̓͆̒̚̕l̷̡͈̜͔͇̤̬̃̂͌̍͜l̶̡̗̥͗̔͌̎͠ ̶̛͇̠̱̙̜̇̏̈́̌͑͋͠ỵ̵̢̹̰̦͊̐͗͂̅̊̆͒̌̏̏̒͘͝͝ǫ̵̪̭͖͇̝̯̹̯̔͋̆͊͗̀̉̏̄͜ų̴̛̜̙̗͉̻̿̓̀̂̂̈̑͑̈́͝ ̵̧̺̖̳̣̰̱̞̽̀̐̓̍̄ͅó̸̢͓̿͊͒͒͜͝ͅf̵͔̫̑̌f̶̡̹̹̗̮̹͇͇̯̲̝̊e̵͎͛̂̔́͂͑̓̃̔͌͘͝ŗ̶͓̲̬̳̻̟̘̮̠̞̞͍̐̽̍͋͛̌̉̀̕ ̸̱̠͖̉̿̒̾͛̇̚ͅh̷̥̟̥̫̯̜͉̤͙̘̫̤̺̅̃̏͂̉́͒̋̓̈́͐̂͂͘ͅe̵̳͉͗̑̄͂͗͐̉̉̽̆̀̚̕͝l̷͈̺̮̠̦͂̔̎͆̐p̷̡͎͇̞̤͙͉͇͉̤̎̏͒̏̌́̉̚?̷̨͖̹̏͊̿͛̔̃́͋̄̒͛̓̕͘̚

_snap out of it, Max, you can do this. tear yourself out of this cycle!_

ÿ̶̨͍̹̦͖̬̹̉̎̾̽̾̂̐̅̀ǒ̸̧̨̟͚̠̰͈͕̝͔̦̻ü̷̠̰͓̦̬͇̙̗͙̱͉̝͌͂ ̵̡̜̼̩̙̺̱͙͍̭̙͖͖͇͌̕s̵͉͖̋̈̓̉͐̽̓̽͆̈͛t̷̡̡̫̞̗̫̗͓̾̀̓̊̈́̑̐͋́͆̋̈́͋͘i̷̧̧̨̥̩̭̼̤̤̖̩̘̬̝͒͐̑̏͂̎̓͠l̶̪͎̫̖̿̅̍̑͋̓̈́̍̐͋̉͌̾l̷̨̨̫͈͙̬͖̻̫͙̲̪͌̌͜ ̸̨̧̫̦̬͇͔̹͙͓̈̎̍̌̑͑̉̿̿̇͑ͅp̵͙̦͇̫͌̍̑̎̉͜o̶̠͓͍̮̪͂̐͊̃̏̈́̕͠s̷͇̞̠̮̱̖̺̄̓̔͗̋̑̚͝s̸̡͇̫̖͍͖̪̣̑̃́͐̄̏̋͂̑̔̅e̶̢̝̜̜̰̤̠͎̩̳̬̙̞̊̓͘š̷̢̘̰̭̟̤̿̎̓͑̚ͅş̸̨̢͇͍̳̉͜ͅ ̶̛̻͖̱̒̓͒̆̂̋t̶͕̥̬̩̩̼̝̳͕͈̲̩̪̬̓́ͅḩ̴̡̧͉̲̤̝̼̥̙͇̪̣͓̜̎̆̿̑̉͗͆̈́̇̊̋ë̶̘͕͚̖͎̂̈̔͊̽͐͌̏̅̾͘͠ ̴͍̣̖͚̘͋͜p̷̧̲͈̩̥̲̀̒̄̆͝ͅờ̵̢̖̘̍̂͝l̸̡̫̯͈̅̓̇͊͘a̷̖̖̹̮̜̩͋͋̓ř̵̜̪̖̬͉̀̎̌̂͒͑̊͌̂̆͒̈́̚͝o̵̝̲͙̗͗̂͗̌͌̿̒͌̿́͗ỉ̶̯̩̥͌̈̓͜d̷̛̠̩̖̯̞̜͚͈͙̭̞̲̋͗̐́͛̑̎̍͛̏̆ͅ ̴͎̥̰̞̣̞̩͓̬̹̗͇̞̂͑͛͂͛̈́̀̃̐̆́̿o̸̮̦̜̗̪̥͙̯̓̈̍̈̈̀̈́̕͜͜͝ͅͅf̷͔̥̪͙͊̔̍̿̉͐̊͊̕͘ͅ ̵̛̜̯̥̌͊̏̂̆̃͋̄̐̕͠͝͠͝y̶̨̧̫̣͈͓̠̮̬̜̜̪̞͆̐̌̓̽͑͋̌͌̒̿̍͝ͅó̶͉̜̬̩̪͈͎͒ư̸͉̻͉̯̩̍̍̂͑͛̿̈̉͋̋́͝ŗ̵̨̧̛̰̩̤̩̥̜͔͆̾ ̶̨̺̺̱̳͂̿͛̃̂͝s̷̢̢̠̘͈͓̃̽ȩ̴͇͍͙͍̜͚̤̮̗͆̃̅͛̀̈́͌l̶̰̜̤͖̊f̷̡̢͖̹̭̫͕̙͔̻̙͕̟͂-̶̫̞͖̘̆̇̂̃͊̂̕̚̕͝͠ḭ̵̪̩̦̦̼̽͂̃̃̋̂͑̍̉̈͑͒̋̄͘ṃ̴̧̛̮̰͕̞̞͎̜̪̆̎͌̈́̈͊̈́̓͋ͅą̷̗̣͉̗͓͉̲͉̥̪͌͗̎̆̏̀͜͠g̴̛̥̜͒̾͋̐̏͊̐̽̀̕͝ē̵̡̜̺̗̠̩̭͚͇̓̄̈́͜

̴͍̼̱̦̇̈́͐̎̀ü̷͔̎̾̈́̽͋̾̈́͘ṡ̵̨̘̻̱̣̖̮̫̻͔̝̰̳́̓̀̈́͋̕͜͝͠e̵̠̬̫̺̮̫̲͒̎͗̉̏̕͜ ̵̧̢͈̜͕̙͈͔͕̲͍͍̏̎̌̎̇͑̑ĭ̷̢̦̮̦͍̞̣͖̺̩̩͛̑̂̾̈́̂̆̒̑̔̎̓͠t̷̛̩̹͔̣̾̄̒̽̄̌̈́̂̓̚͠,̵̡̲̣̜͔́̄͘ ̸̖̥͉̎̐̃̌̕a̷͚̥̩̺̪͋̔̒̓̀͂̋̕͘l̷̢̳̰̟̟̬͚̫̜̤̹͔͆̆́̕ṯ̷̢̨͍̰͉̬̯͈͇̹̼͆̈̚̕͜͜h̷̭̘̜͎̰́̅̄̚ơ̴̡̨̛̳̪̹̫͈̖͍̾̍͐̓̄͆͋̋̕͝ͅu̷̢̢̜͚̞̖̖̥̖͍̙̟̯͑̀̒̎͗͜ͅg̶̨̣͓̮͇͙̹̖̬̞̾̒̏̈̕h̶͕͍̱̋̄͋̃͊͂̒̿̕ ̸̨̖̩͉̱͕̞̺͎͚͚̋̉̃͗͜͝ị̶̧͚͕͇̪̗̞̾̆͂̂̅͝t̴̛̪͙̩̺̥̥̰̗̙͍̣͗̈́́̾̂̏͑͘ ̸̨͚̗̫̹̮̦̘̝̱̒̊̈́͗͋̈́͛̈́̃̕͠į̴̧̬͎̜͒̒̀ş̵̢̧̟̯̳̦̝̬̠̦̝͛̇̎͊͘̕̚͝ͅ ̵̨͓͍̤͔͘s̵̢̧͙̼͓͍̦͎̝͆͌͛͑̾͝ţ̸̫̲̭͕͉̲͂͠ă̶̼̫̺̰̼̞̠͔̼̮͖͕̳̦̓̏̄͊̋͘̚͝i̸̢̨̡̦̜̪̮̪͂̾͗̽̆͛̆́͠n̸̨͎̩̙̤̻̬͒͌̂͛̉̇́̚̕͘ͅͅẻ̸̖͈̺̻͉̤̹̝͚̝̰͎͖̝̓͗͊̒͘͝d̷̲̮̫̦̩̽̾ ̸̻̜͍͚̦̫̅̊̇̇̒ĩ̴̗́̀̃͂͋̽̆̐̆̕̚͝n̷̨̨̝̓̃͒̏̓͒̚ ̷̡̞̼̱̣͓̺̼̅̌͜y̸̢̡̨̙̖̤̗̣͚͕̗̙̠̫̅̃̇̔̊̊̔̈́̇̈́͐̿̚͝ǫ̸̛̛̦̬̩̣̦̙̯̳̰͎̹͛͛͛̀̈́͗̔̾͂͐̚͘ͅư̴̞͍̅̂̏̍͂̓͒́̔͠ŗ̴͎̠͔̠̱̙̞͇̝̥̹̿̈́͂͒͂̾̉̈ ̵̧̙̱͖̹̳̝̜͚͉̤̝̱̃̋̄̇̆̋̌͗͆̚b̸̳̬̻̤͍̹̼̰͈̻̦͍̪͒̅̿̇͐̿̆̃̓͆̒͆͘͝l̵̬͉̜̭̻̭̬͉̦̆͐̃̒̏͐̾͑̋͜o̶̙͉̭̭̗̦͔͈̣̊̒̄͗̈́͗͗́͗̂̈̍͘͝ơ̷̫̙͓̻̥͇͗́͗̿͑̄̀͐̎̇ḑ̶̧̢̧̢̹̠̦̦̞͕͈͙͓̯͊̏ ̷̨͙͙̬͑͋͛̎̀̌̎̿͐̂͘̚͠a̴̡̡̫̙̦̯͎̺͔̖̩͌̀̉̋͗̈́͂̂͊̀͜ͅͅf̶̧͔͍̩̬͓̝̼̟͙̈́̓̐̓̅̏̈͠ͅt̴̤̔́̽̐̍̂̆̋̈ȩ̶̨̛̫̣̹̺̱͔̘͙̹̫̦͍̅͂̅́̎̃ͅṙ̷̯̗̦̙̎͊͘͜͠ ̸̰̪̹̗̱͘t̴̪͕͙̟̝̣͙͔̥̹̏̾̾̓̏̀̐̓̒̽̔͠͠h̴͙̰̯̬̤͍͖͇̺̙̯͈͂́̇̽̈́̾̿̔̈́̈̾͘͜e̵̡̱̜͕̬̫̔̉̇̉̑̕ͅ ̶̧͎͈̟̣̀͊̎͌̈́̓̽̕ṉ̸̨̣͈̉͗͒̕ö̵̧͙̠̮͉̞́̃͛̆s̸̛̠͔̙̰̹̈̓̓̈̅͑̓̑̄̎̒͘͠͝ȩ̸̢̡̳̱͙̻̜̼͎̖̯͐̄̅̒̃̊̈͊̎̽̃̊̌͒͜͜͝ḇ̸̡̨̛͈̼̭̪̫̬̺̫̤͎͋̋͛͗̀͐̚̕͠͠l̸̬̘̓̔̈́̓̍̆̉̐̅̈̓̅͂͑̃e̸̡̟͇͙̘͖̠̺͓̥̭̯̐̒̒̐͜͠ę̵̧̢̻̺͕̣̼͔̮͉̬̫̦̰̓̆̑̋̿̇d̷̘͓̰̥̓̔̉̏̋̓͆̚͘͘͘͜͝͝

 

 

“̶̡̧̧͕̖͈͔͚͓̤̹͂̋̌͒̉̉̈́̑̓̔̿͝-̶͎̦̻͉̯̤̩̅̆̇̏̈́̇-̵͓͙̥̬͕͕̗̖͈͐͆̌̂̓̎-̴͇̘̫̽̓͋-̷̢̧̡̩̘̪̩͍̮͎̘̩͕̜̏̄̌̒ͅ-̴̛̛̗̈́̋̇̈́̚͝͠-̸̛̫̜͖͕̼̯̐́̌̓̌̔͒̋̈́̑̊͜͠-̶̡̢̛̩̩̣̣̻̫̤͚̳̗̥̟̖̎̒͊̍̊̓̓͂̚̚-̵͈͎̰̝̮̖̯͚̣̻̒̋̓ͅ-̴̧̛̗̪̪̹̼̿͗̐̾̓͑́͑̈-̷̛̥̙̱̟͔͖̻̬̫̋̐̄̂̒͂̈́͋̂͘͝ͅ-̵̭̟̼̗͍̈́-̸̡̲̬̝̃̔͗̊̑̒̄͌̈́͊͝-̵̧̧̝̩͉̻̬̹̱͙͙͙͓̳͚̋̀̽̀͗̅͋͋͠-̸̨̪͚̤̰͗͐̍̌̾͑̊͆̈́͐̾̕͘͝-̸͓̝̘͕̘̪̎̋̒͂͒̀͠-̶̨̡̨̝̣͉̘̳̰͖̅̒́̊́̿͌̊̽̽͆̐͠-̶͓͎̳̻̖̺͙͆-̸̨̛̱̦̳̫͔̹̼̗̬̬̳̦̙̋̆̇͗͊̒͊̍̿̈́̕͜͝-̴̛͚͈͗̈́͌͐̊-̶̢̢͚̰̲̰̖͉̫͉̠͚͇̬͊͊̐̓̀̍̆̓̈́͌͐͘͠͝ͅ-̶̨̡͔͍̩̗̬͚̫͈̓̎̐͜͠ͅ-̷̨͚̟̥̘̱͆͗̔͛̈́̓͛̄͌͒͒͒̅̒͝-̶̭̠̖͕̳̹͎̫̺͍̠̻̟͍͘-̶̱̈́̎̓͊̍̌̒̏͘-̶̞̲̞̉̉́͝-̸͙̰͍̠̬̬̼̜͍̤̮̂̓̂͂́͜-̴̢̫͇̮̜̗̰̼͓̜̭̭̬̔͗̊-̶̟̫͙̣̜̦̯̘̖̋͗͂-̴̛̦̞͓̣̘̭̪̙̗̔̉̚͘̚̕-̶̹̪̱̱͂̀̑̓̿̄͗̈̑̆͘-̸̡̻̘̦̳̫͔̪̈́͜ͅ-̵̙̗̺̤̩̻̠̋́̈́̓̽͠ͅ”̷̢̻̳̼͚̦̞̉͆̿͘̕ ̶͍͎̘̼̭̖̲̄͠ẗ̵̨̧̰̥̱͉̺̳͍͖͕́̐̕͜ḫ̸̡̛̘̠̾̂̔̿̎̚̚͠ę̴̡̼̗̘̫̝̲͕̍̑̐̌̉̏̌̎͐͘͘͜͠ͅͅ ̷̡͍̠̰̻͆͒̑̈̎̓̅͘̚G̸̨̢̧̧̫̼͉̣̳͕̜̯̃̂̈́̔͐̊̒͋̊͌̉͘͜͝e̴̢͉̱̠̫͓̎̒́̀̔́͂̑̓̅̿̎r̴̰̔͒̈̇̃͂̓̆͝ḿ̴̨̛̝̭͕̺̦̠̝̉̑́̉͐̌̿̂͛̚͠a̷͙̱͌̒͑̔͒͐̐̂͊͠n̵̢̳͓̹̍͐̀̐̀̔̑͜͜ ̸̳̙̌̏̊̈́̐̀ơ̴̡̠̠͚̰͈̘̫̠͚̜̪̫̽͜ṷ̸̢̱̺̗̻̺͖͇̤̹̳͗̂t̵̤͓̣̳͈̟͍̞̽̈́͊͊̊͑̅͂͆͝ŗ̸̡̥̣̳̪̜̓̈́̅́̂a̵͙̘̮̯̦͛̆͌̋͝g̸̢̨̧̢̺̯̮̦̠̮͙̳͒͗͆͒ê̴̝̩̭͖̇̍́̾͊̋ő̵̼͛͐̓ư̸̢̺̬̖̿̆̊̄̽s̷̤͕͉͚͙̱̉̈́́̆͆̆̂͛͆͂͋̋͛́l̴͇̬̣̥̫̯̻̞͂̉̎̉͋̿̏̿͝y̶̥̤̥͕̲̋̓̓̔̋̓͒̈͠͝͠ ̸̳͎̟̞̙̟̪̝̖̐͐͒̊͆̀̍͑̀͗͜r̴̙̉ä̶̡͔̘͎̫̺͉̣͆̇̆͗͋̉͌̂̄̎i̴̥͍͗s̶͍͕͊̅̐̍̓̅̅̒̕͘e̷̯̮͍͙̫͗́̎̓̓̅̏̎̎͊̽͝s̸̻͎̲̦̲͍̥̘̙͔̈̽̎̉͌͐̓̈́̓͊͘͠͝ ̷͔͍̪̬̇̇h̴̙̭̖͈͍͊̔͝i̷̧͚͓̘̪̜̩͔̦͗̅̑̈̈́͆͐̓͊̊̏̚ͅs̵̡̠̗̱͈̫̼͋̍̂̾̈́̎͠ ̷͍̻͊̾͌̔ͅv̵̨̧̳͉̘͖̲̳̜̙̖̂͑̂̽̎̍̚͜͜o̶̧̡̯̙̯̭̝̠̥͔̤̎͛̄̓́ĭ̵̡̖̘̥͙̹̜̟͍̺̠̖͍̝̦̊̇͂͝č̸̖̠ē̶͔̫͑̈̔̾̓̎̊̿͝͠.̴̧̡̼͕̠̲̻͖̌͜

̷̺̙̳̟̮̺̼͐͑͐̍̇͠š̶̡̡̛͖̜̠̞̠̟̟͖͚̥̰̭̺̊̅̾ṭ̸̛̠̩̣͓͆̽̒̂̊̂̐̓o̷̡͔̺͚̬̭̭̮͉̭͑̏̀̏͒͂̋p̸̨̢̨̲̥̹̪̣̖̘̬͍̪̓̌͛͑̑̔̽͒̃̔̈́̚ ̴̥̼͖̆̔̒̎͋̋̀̈́̽̄̈́̿̐͝͝t̵̨͓͍̳̣̝̼̹̼̞̺͚͋͐̿̊͐h̸̛̤̉͝ȇ̶̤͔̫̣͉͔̫̩͚̝̂̀̂̌͗͌̽͜͝ ̶̢͚̭͈̯̊̾͋̐̈͊̂̈̓͗͘̚͝c̴͎̣̺͊̎̈́h̸̡̘̖͈͂̎͊ą̴̢͓̼̝̙̗̞̺̱̖̬͂͛͗͌̃͌̾̈́͗͝͝͝t̸̢̜̗͍̪̲̙͚̓͗̒͝t̷͎̄̓̕ȇ̸̢̥͙̖̻͍͍̜͔̲̼͔͂̐̇͘ͅr̷̛̻̟̙͇̝̬̲̘̘͙̽͐͒̈́͌̿̔̆̇͝͠͝

̷̧͓̮̳͔̣͔̯̞̲̤̟͉̊͋͐͆̉͜“̴̡̠͌͂̍͂̕͝-̵̝̹͕͖̥̯͈͑͆̃̈́̆̀̈́̂̈́̌͑̐̚͜͝-̵̨̧̢͙͕̪̯̰̪̜̦̜͈̞̑̾̏̈́͒̂ͅ-̷̖̲̃̄͌̒́̏̏̈́̔̚͘͠ͅ-̶̢̮͉͇̝̊̐-̵͇͙͚̖̱̩͊̀̓̏̐̊͘̚͝-̸̡̦͓͕̘͙̲̘͔̙̖̜̭̆̒̌́̿͐̊̏̈̌̚̚̕-̵̨͂-̵̢̨̨̤̤͖̗͖̭̰͆̓̌͛͊̑͝͝-̶̨̣͍͖̟̟̞͑̇̋̈̓̇͘͠-̶̨̨̢̡̳͖̺͔̈͛̀̇͊͂͑̏̋̂̽͘͠-̴̘̞̇͋͋̀̈̓͐̾͝-̸̻̞̻͗͗͌̾̉̇̐̄͝ͅ-̵̨͖̟̰͖̏-̸̨̣̮̫̖̤̰̼͈̮͔̭͛̐̉̅̇̓-̷̧̟͖̱̬̱͔͈͙̼̠͎̏̏͌̌”̸̗͉͒͂ ̶̧͉͔͎̱̹͖͚̘̞̰͆͗͗̅͝ͅr̵̨̛̟̹͖̜̼̬̂̂͛͊̃̄͒̊͝ͅĕ̵̡̩̹̫̤v̴̢̱̩͈̩̦͎͈͛̈̅͊̋̿͌̽̚͝͠ê̷̡̧̬̠̯̯̯̱̮̟̮̓̽̃͐͂̉̎̕͝n̵̨͚͉̜̠͉̹̭͍̟̉̐́̚͠ģ̷̠̹͇̦̥͆́̓̃̔̓͑͋͗̑͝e̸̢̧̛͔̹̘̗̩͍͙͓͙͉͈̘͌̑͛̽̌̒̄́͋̐̚͝ ̵̢̡͇̲̖̥̰͕͓͇͛̓̊̈́̾͠l̷̢̧̨̧̙̯͎͈͖͇̈́̈́͘̚ơ̴̫̺͎̓͛͐͑͆̊͛̒̽͌̈́͂͘̚w̶̢͉̰͓̙̝̱͓̪̳͆̇̇̕ȩ̵̲͚̦͎̣̰̩̩̻͖͚͈͇͒̓͆̏̀̋̅̿̈́͆̽̕͝ͅr̶̡̬͔̞̠̩̟̩̣̃̈́͊̄̎̇̄̏ͅs̴̥̫̩̙͓̺͈̃̓̊̉̅͂̿̊̎̕͘ͅ ̷̹̫̌̀̓̃̐̃̏̚͘͝h̷̢͓̟̠͔̻̳̗͖̪̗̮̝̅̿̑̒̈́̊̕͜ḭ̷̢̼̖̖̠̬̭̗̝͕͕͗͂̔͑̒̈͘͜ş̴͈̟͙̩̳̠̺̫̣͙͎̥͓̎̇ ̵̛̬̝͕͚̠̫̆v̸̧̡͉̹̞̙̞̭̭̜̬̊̉̽̉̀͗̆͜ͅͅõ̴̡̥̬͇̳͙̱̲̘̗̻̟̖͐i̴̡̻͚̤͈͕̱̭̓̉͊̽̈̎̾̊͊̔̔͘͝c̸̛̠̬̘͙̻̊̃̇͗͒́̉ͅȩ̸̮̤̝̓.̷̢̧̤̪͔̞̱̦̣̀͑

̵̦̳̺͚̩̜̺̥̝̰̭̩̈̔̈͊̈́̑̽̃w̶̪͙̎͂̿̈́̈́́͠͝͝h̶̨̛͓͇̫̤͖̳̹̗̖̯͓̖̾̋̅̎͗̓̊͘͠a̴̦͍̩̟̜͈̓̐̆̍̍̔̈́̚ț̶̟̝̰͍͕̟͛̔̈́̓̏̈́̀́͌ ̷̬̃͆̑́̀t̷̢̨͍͔̮̲̩̗̯̻̤̝̅̾͊̅̀͊̐̚ḩ̸̠͇̞̗̫͊͗̈́͆̌̈́͠͝ę̷̹̖̜̫͙̭̦͍̮̏͂͂̽͑̀̏̃͘ ̷̢̫͎͙̥̯̱̥̱̄̈́͋̌̀̋̔͜͜͜͝͝ͅh̸̨̡̜͈͓̮͚̜̼͔̱͇͔̮̪̔̋̏́̀̽̾̈́̈́͆̈́̕͝͠e̷̪̪͙̯̮̪̦̐̔́̓̐̑̃̽͂͆̆̎̈́̇͘c̸̜̟͓͛̆͊̐̄͗ͅk̸̢̡̺̳̬͖̤̫͙̹̤̦͕̈́̑̔̊̒̕̚͘ ̵̜̂̈́͌͐͋̅̈́î̵̙̻̺̠̗̞̈̓͌͒̓͂̈͑͝͠͠s̷͈̜̟̥̣͇͇͛̾̂͘ ̸̧̢̻̟̞͓͓̤̏̍̔̌̃́̆̈̓̏̍͠ṫ̷̖̌̃̽̀͊͂̍͌͊̎͠ḫ̴̢̗̙̱̤̘̬̊̅͐̿̕͝ȃ̸̢̢͇̬͍͓̙̱̜̦̬̩̥͆͋̓͝t̷̨̨͙͎̫͓̞̹̟͙̲̰̝̪̼̒͝?̴̢̧̙͇̳̖͍͚̞͈͖̤̲̎̂͂̌̉͜͠

̸̦̖͚̮͎̤̭̩̘͑̎̽̔̃͐̔́̚͘̕͠“̴͔̙̙͉͇͔͇͚͍̣̣̹͌͐̑̌̒̚͠͝͝-̵̘̲̥͇̬̹͉̟̼͛̀́̓̎̂͛͂̆͜͜͝-̴̡̛̝̼̲̩̩͇̯͙̦̈́̊͑̓́-̶̢͖͉̙͔͓̥͍̱̫͈͔̊̀̿̾͒̄̈́̿͌͋̀̅̆͐͝-̴̙̖̰̈́͒͒̈́̅͑͗͂͌̍̋-̸̨̡̡̛̤̜̹̭͗̀͗̉̆̆͒͑-̴̧̩̖̰͎̜̍͋͘?̵̠̩̎̊̇̚͠”̴̯̜̫̲̺̜̘̈͌͆͋̉͐̏̔͒̂͊͗̚͝ ̴̠̳͈̺̣̰̜̜͔̥̜̯̐̕͜E̴̢̖̺̺͑̅̊̊̒̓͘͝͝͝r̴̡̧̧̛̖̜̗͓͖̠̬̣̙̓̃̏̾̓͐̓͋͜͠͝į̴̧͈̳̥̹͓̾̃̋͒́͑̊̈́͗ċ̸̯̙͍͋͌͑̂̇͗̕͜͝ ̴̨̥̘̦̭͐̏̉̾͒̇͊̕̚͜͠s̵̛̖̎͋̏͂͆̄͒̉̔̓̚͠ę̸̱̤̪̗̱̹̝̫̮̰̮̔̍̓̔͗̓̒̏͑̍̕̕̚͝ę̶̻̳̦̣̹̳̭͚̳̻̲̬̈̆̊͌̃͑͐̕ḿ̵͎̞͓̌̊͋͆̕͝i̵͓̰̱͉̬̘̫̔̾̑̌̚̚n̴̡̨̜̲͕̼͍̩̘̞͙̭̂̒̾̂̌̋͜͜g̷̥̹͗͊l̴̨͙̮͇̗͓̮̹̥̊y̷̢̯̙̲̬͉͌̎̎ ̸̦͓͕̥̺̬̲̙̰̗̈́̎̎͌̋͜ţ̵͕̺̯̦͈̘̯̻̜̩̻̻̑͆̆͊̿̽̅̾̆͊͝u̶͎͍̳̖͚̩̫͕̠̰̇́͌̑͛͗̃̃̂͋̊̅ͅr̷͙͕̍̈́̃̒͝ͅn̴̢̨̻͙̦̠̘̖̫͍͕̼̹̲̈́̄͗̓̇̈́̈́͊̏̿̍̒̾͜͝s̸̟̗̅̑̒̿͒̈́̄̐̒͝͝ ̶̲̻̻̟̝̥̺͐͌̓͊͋̋a̸͚̲͙̋͊̊̈́͆͌̾̈́̎̾̃̄̕r̵̡̗̃̊̀̐͋̃̽̑̽̊̓ơ̴̼̟͇͎̠͉̠̝͂̓̆̋̂̀̉̇͌̔͊ͅū̷͇̺̖̬̱̦͊̉̎͋̒͗̚̚̕͝n̶̢̛̬̊̈̈́̀d̶̨̧̦͚̞̫͎͉͇̩͍̙͙̥̊̃̍͘͘ͅ.̶̞͍͔̓͂̂̔̑̒̈́̔̈́͐̿͝

̶̧̫̠̞͇̤͖͐͒̇͒̋͋͊̕͝ẇ̷̖̜̳̆͌̉̋̋̐̍̚h̶̡̡̲̣̬̳̘͖̝̳̅̆̈́̆̽̐͆̾̚̚͝ã̵̩̖̮̦̻̮̂͋t̴̟͖̪̃̋͊͊̌̔̀̎̇̇͂̀̕͜?̶̖̣̜̰̺̦̘̫͈͎̖̤̰̪̽͌̂̅͂̇̾̆̋͜

̷̛̦̭̩̤̮̞͈̮̞̪̊̌̐͜ͅ“̴͓͗̂͋̃͆͒̇͘H̷̯̳̗̗͔̙̲̦̭̲̯̭͍͈̮͑̏̈͒̋͌͋̌̔̃͒͝ę̷͓̦̲̼̹̲͍͍̙͖͑͊̇̍̂̏̔̈́̇̇̽̃̓r̵̛̻͈͕̺͍͕̱͂̏̅́̑̄̎͒̏͘͝͝ě̴̡͈͈͔̰̟̰̥̳͎͍̩̤̀̆͐͝,̶̢̡͎̝̯̤̺̻̬̭͔͇͎̤͑̊̎̒̔̈̃̔ ̵̦̣̙̥̪̮͕͉̪̠̪̲̑̃̈͐͠ͅţ̵̖̱̏̆́̈́a̸̯̖̮̺͊͗͐̇̈̚k̵̝̫͓̭̂͂̿̋̓͒̑͐̕̚̕ē̴͇̙̮͉̻͇͖͎͑̆̈́͊́͒̀̍͊̏̓ ̷̫͉̲̰͑̀̔̌̊̐̋̋̚m̷̛͉̩̦̝͈͇͈̦̲̆͛̂́͗̿͛̿̽̔̐͜͠ỹ̷̛̭̯͍͔̜͖̪̣̬͈̪́͊̒͊̾̄ ̷̨̛͇̩̱͕͕̤̭̺͕̄̓͛̽̏͋̈́͐͑͛̀̈͝b̵̢̹͉̝̖̬̰͒̏̋̿̎̌̋͆̚͜͝i̵̤͉͗̑͗͌͂̀̃͝ņ̵̢̯̦̬̯̪͓̺̰̘͇̣͋̑̂͜͝o̸̧̧̡̟̯̞̬͚̞̮̮̜͍͉̭͗̐̂̎̄̊̒̾̅̇̚̕̚c̷̟͕̠̪̝̠̟̻̟͚̬̥̤̠̽ͅu̷̡̢̫͊͆̊̆̚l̷̨̦͓̩̖̣̺̯͐a̴̡̜̼͙̬̫̱̞̲̼̖̮͇͍̗̋r̷̗̙͓̩̩̺͖͔̹̙̉̂s̴̛͈̲̩̖̙̼͙̜̜͔͕͍̬̜͆̈́͂̾͐́̆͗ ̴̧̜̲̞̝̪̘̃̌̽̐̄̃͋̀̅͗͂̅͠a̸̧̛̛̻͔̙͉͙̫̱͕̘̦͂͠n̶͓̗̣̼̭̠̅̒͒͗̾́̌̈́̕͝ͅd̶̮̱̦̲͑͜ ̸̧̛͎͙͍͕̯͇̞̮̤̭̠́̑̽̑́̒͒̀͛͆̚͘͝t̸͍̯͕̔͐̓̄͊̅ȩ̵͎̳̟̝̞̿̅̈́̈́͌͒̚͝ḻ̵̢̛͖̻̣̳̱̪̝̜̤̩̎̎̿̾̈́͌̊͗͊͗͐̕͜͝l̷̩̭̖͖̰͖̩̊̿̄͗ͅ ̶̧̢̪͎̟̻̪̋͘ͅm̶̧̢̛̯̣̗̻̗̹̟̭͉͐̾͐͑̐̄̐͜͝e̴̢̳̗̼͙̟̤̲̯̩̓͒̿̊͒͠ ̸̡̡̘̩̺̬̺̞̫̘̅w̷̢̛̫̞̯͕͔̝̗̜̘̟͌̀̈́͌̇͌̈́͝h̸̨͕͙̮͈̟̼̘̝̺̥̗̭͇̬͛̏̅̓̆͊̂̾̎̎͘͠a̷̺̠̟̺̹͒͒̎͂̓̊͆̈͋͒̕t̷̝͇̞̿̃͋̿̑͋͗͊ ̷̛̰̖̱̫̩͔̭̬̫̆̒̋̃̍̈́̓̏͂͘͝y̷̢͉̞̜͈͖̖̝̩̮͌̎͌̄̉̓̊͝ȍ̶̰̝̪̘͜u̵̠͉̞̮̲͍̣̰̣̮̟͌̈͊̑̌͋̒͐͆̂̚͜ ̷̱̺̔͗̿̓̂͘ŝ̶̨̛̯̮͉͇̝͖̩̟̟͎͓̬̇̏͂͛̍͌̈́͛͜͝͠͠e̶̹͚͓̲̳̳͕̝̗̥̭͎̹͖̠͂̿̊͛̄̌̓̓̓͐̒́͘e̶̱͚̣͈͔͎̜̟̱̱̟̍̂͌̓͐̅̅̕͜͝!̴̩͍̥̹̦̣̤̻̖̣͐͆̓̾̿̀͋̈́͐̌͒͆̚”̷̧̖͍̤̯̫̺̭̆͋͜ ̸̡̛̛̥̗̟͔͍̦͙̬̫̤̬̮̄̓̈́̋͊̉̆͘͜R̴̳̞̙͓͗́͑͑̓̾͛̚͠͠ę̷̛̯̩̝̙̠̺̦̝̻̯̳v̶̬̭̭̏͐͜ë̵̬͕̟̟̝̟́̿̚ņ̴̤̜̱͈̜̏̈́̔̍͋͜g̷̤̥̤͎͉͖͔͋͠ͅë̶̙́ ̷̡͈̺͈̰̤̙͕̉͗̍̃̇̍͋̽͠ḣ̷̹̹͉͈̤̩̱̞̰͉̜̪̑̂̌̊͐͒̏̾͆͐̕͝ą̶̫̱̄̀͑̐̔͑̾͘s̶͉̟͛ ̸̧͎̯̻̝̝̇͜ͅͅc̸̡͍̱͍̗̪͙̎͆͑͛̎̍̐̔͑̊͌͘̚͝ḧ̸̲̬͒͐̅̓͂̃͂͊̓̉͐͝͝ą̴̧̡͉̹̪̫͕̱̥̠̳̩̓̑̀̄̓̓͑̊̾̆ͅn̸̹͐̎͒g̸̩̺̤̝̩͕̽̕e̶̤͙̭̰̘̲̐́̊̌͌͝ḑ̵͍̬̩͓̰͈̮͇̙̤̲͕̱̭̂̊ ̴̛̣̺̹̜̪̹̖̠̼̲͗̄̑̈̿̎͊͒͐̆̒̚͠͝ͅb̶̦̠͖͚̈́͝ȧ̵̢̲͖͍̠͔̎̃̒̿̐͑̍͛͒c̷̤̹̃̀͝k̴̡̲̖̻̤̥̈̅̒͂̐̽̀̔̈́ͅͅ ̸̧͇̫͙̇͗̒̄̈́͋̔̂̑̏̐̉̈́͜t̶̨̨͖͕͔͚͎͙̤̦̗̪͚̲̹́̍̉ȍ̷̡̭͍̠͉̤̪̞͍̱̔͆͂͜ ̵̰̮̗̙̝̺̤͙̤̳̺͔̏̉̓̊́̒͗̀̇̕̕͝͝h̸̠͘i̷̡̧̡̭͉͖̩̳̖̳͕̠͎͍̐̔̑͆̐́̍̚͘s̸̜̘̺͉̗̮͖̣̙̬͕̥̼̻̟͗͊̂̈́͠͝ ̶̙̰̓̈́̇̌f̵̜̪̺͚̯̩̳͗̀̊͠ͅl̵̨̤̭̼̼̤͕̈́̌̄̓͒̓̅́̊͌̆͒̎ͅu̷̹͎͓͔̟̲͕̐̏͗͌̈͗̑́̔̀͛̉͐͗͜ȩ̴̛̛̺̯̯̯̇̏͋̔̓̿͝n̴̨̧̝̼̠̹͎̲͚̟̈̑̂͗̐̿͌͂͌͊t̵̝̲̝̹̝̲̙͙̞̩͒͒̀͘ ̸͍͔̏ț̶̛̛̺̭̥̝̱͔̽̐͆̇̿̀̈́̈́̿ǫ̸̡͈͈̰̙͉̦̙̬͉͓̘͉̽̌̒̏̿̿͜n̴̗̝͙͈̋͊͐̀̂͐͑͌́͝g̵̛̭̯̹̾̿̏͂̍̃̆̿̄̌̕͠u̸͙̗̳̙͎͈̠̥̺̞̙͛ě̶̢͙͕͇͉̗̩͔̺̝̲̏͜͝͝ͅ.̴̼̿ ̶͈͓͎̥͑̽̔̂̅͐̐̕̕Å̴̧̧͔̥̙̪̬͋͂͜ ̷̡͈͎̼͇̜͑̆̄͋͂̍̏̓͌̉̏̕̚̕͠l̴͖̦̰̯̯͊̈́͋̆̑͜͝o̴̧͙͕̞̜͖͖͇͈̥̭̼͑͒̈̑̃̎̈́̓̓̓͗͘͘͜͠u̷̬̲̎͑͊͗̎̎͑͊͝͝͠d̶̩̦̤̻̬̯͕̱͚̬͇̦͍̅̂͋̋͗̋͒̑͋̊́̚̚̕͝ ̴̧̢̦̪͎͙͚̠̦͇̎m̸̢̛͇̫̙͎̬̃͂͗̓̉̈́̆̽͂̚ṵ̵̧̻̫̠͓̝͔̮͈̱̤͊͛̉̓̀̅̀̐̅̌̽͂͊͘ͅr̶̡̼͚̘͎̝͈̬̣̖͈̞̊̓̔͒̓͜͜m̷̧͈͈̥̝̙̔̄̇̎̀̌̐̚͝ȗ̴̡̪͖̠̰͌̍̽r̸̝̒͊̚ ̶͓̭̒͋̆̍̓͐̆͐̕͠a̸̡̨̞̖͎̻̱̱̳͊̐̒̇̂̅̅͛̀̌̅̎͝͝r̶̯̖̖͖̱̗͍̲̜͚̊̔̊̈̄̌̊̆̒̾̾̓̃͘͠o̶̡̜͚̙͂̋̾̃͐̀͒̿̿̓̂̆̇u̷͔͂͐̈n̸͕̱̠͎̖͑̄̂͐̆͝ḑ̸͈̤̱̜̈́̓̑̀̆͆̽͆̇̑̾ ̶̛̭̮̈̃̐͊͂̐̍̽̈́̀̈́̕̕͝m̸̛̻̩̘̩̈́̆̂̃̾͐̿̿͑̈́̈̕̚ę̸̛͚̭̟͎̅̑̒̋͑̒̒̂͑̅͊͂̐ ̴̢̠̰͈͓͉̳̦̘̠̔͑͐̔͊̾̒̃͛͗͠b̸̹͚̥̘̥̗̗͇̙͕̠̋͛͛̚͘͘͝ȩ̶̡̛͔̙̠̤̳̈́͐͐͗͆̎̈́̕͘ͅc̶̛̞̭̠̣̘̄̍̈́̉̅ͅỏ̷̧̱͓̠͈̙̼̮͎̫͚́͌̈́̕͝ṁ̸͓̖̼̗̠̝͆̉ḙ̸̬̣̓́̇͊̕š̸̛̛̱̭̬͉̔̎ ̵̛̭̱̟̩̖̳͎̝̆̎̽̃͆̐̈́͆̂̏̏l̸̞͙͇͙̮̤͍̭̞̩̘̋͗ǫ̵̝̹̗̯̠̰̮̝̬̲̺͙̟͛̍̓̏̅̍̿̚ͅu̸̲̞̎͆̈́̕d̴̢̬̮̥͇̮̰̗̑͆͌̐̊͛̾̓͊͠͝ḙ̶̡̡̛̹͓͋̽̍̎̅̒͊̉͒͗ŗ̵̢͍͎͎̪͎̦̰͙̜͒͐̀̐̊̏̒͆̄̈͐̅̈̅͛͜ ̸̧̛̛͈̩̰̲̪̯̱̬͐̌̌̀͝͠a̶͈͚͎͙͂́̀̃͌̄͐͋͑̍͒͠͠n̵̯̩͖̈̊̍̏̅̋́̂͝ḑ̵̛̤̼͍͖͓̘̙͖͓̩̼̪̒̆̒̿̍͗̀̅̈́̌̄͝͝ ̵̡̧̩̊̽͘l̶̨͓̥̱̤͖̮̮̣͙̜̜̲͚̯͆̒͐̎̈́̓͋̇̐̔͗͛͘͘ơ̴̧̧̤͎̺̪̮͊͒͠u̴͕̞͉̱͕͔̥̝̣̓̓̆̈́̏̍̾̇́̊͑̈̓͜d̷̢̺̭̘̍̊̌̈́̍͋͛̓͜e̴̢̛̺͈̥̭̍̋̔̇̈́͑̆̽͘͝ͅr̸̭͛.̷̧̱̲͚̹̹̖̲̣̲͐̈́͜͝ ̷̭̪̯͎̯̼̞̘̩̭̖̮͉͖͒̓͊̋̈́̊̕F̸̖̺͔̤̥̭͑̾̅̿̍̅̒͋͆́̂̽̕͝ơ̷̺̤̥̼̒̽̒͆̓̽͂͜͠o̷̢̠̟̳̦̥͎̫͐͝͠t̵̨̡̢̛̝̦͚̙̰̞̣͉̯̱̎́̄̇̃͗̀̾s̶͇͋͋͊͌̈́̌̈́̌͊ṯ̴̛̻̻̗̤̰̹͍͕͈̘͂̽͑̊̃̽͘͜͝͠ͅę̵̰̪͂̽̎̽̕͝ͅp̸̲͈̠̪͖̳̝͒̀̐̀͘̕͝ṡ̶̤̥̫̺̩̣͋̄́ ̷̢͇̠̜͈̭̱̬͚̘̘͕͊w̷̡͎̻̞̗͍̞̭̪͇͍̗͙͌̃̐͗͐̕͜ͅa̷͇͖̺͈͓̗̠̙̣̗͔̹̭̖̎͊̕ͅl̷̨͕̫̺̙̮̬͍̞̏̀̊͜͠k̸̜͙͓̭̳̊͒̕ ̶̨̬̥̰̲̯͎͙̟͎͛p̷̧̡̤̗͙͚̀̏̎̉͛͒̋͝ȁ̵͖͓̱̥̲̣͇͖̬̭͈̈́͑̏͆̓͘ş̴̧̡̗͙̠̙͙͙̦̼́̆̏͗͆̀̄̍͗̾͌́͠͝t̷̟̲͖͔̰͕̮̓̎̍̏͂̈̾͝ ̶̨̳͍̳̥̩̙̩͓̣͋̽͂͌m̵͓̗̭̈́̾̃͐̄é̶͇̩̻͜.̸̹̦̜̣̣͖̎ ̵̡̠͈̳̞̞͖̲͉͉̹͈͆̑̒“̷̭̤̺̝̃͐͒̆͆̊̋̓̅͊̚̕͝T̸͙̞̩͈͈̳̳̽͋͐͋̓̈͋̋͘͠e̸͙̫̺͍̘͉͔̘͔̝̔͛͌̋͒ļ̸̜͎̪̞͓͔̯̩͇͙̆͑̎͂̄̑̒͠͠l̷̩̣̹̼͇̬͎̖͐̓̒͑̋̑̌͘ ̷̛̭̗̜͇̦̥̯̪̯̿̒̓͆̽͌̈̐̉̏̐̕N̷̛̥͇̭̹͓͑͐̄͌̿̀͌̄̒͝Ǫ̵̨̢̖̪̤̪̤̩̙̝̝͙͉͊̓̃̓̒̇̎̊ ̸̹̦́O̶̰̝̤̣̳̮̬͇̜̦̭̩̳͍̿̃̆̊̽N̶̢̰͙̣̥̰̥̫̤̥̰͖̂̈́͑Ȩ̶̨̡̢̡͓̹̣̤̙̻͖͎͐̅̌̓͆̑͗̒͂̑̕̚͠,̸̦̞̽̑͂̾̂̌̔̾̅̕ ̸̼̉̽́̏̏͂̋̈́͒̕w̷̬̝̒̈͛̒́͘͘h̵̹͖̍̓͐̌̎̕̕̕͠͠ȃ̶̼̳͎̥͓͕̦̥̼̀̑̆t̵̛̛̖̺̼̠̏͑͛͒̀̒̒͝ͅ ̴͉̹̤̯̞̗̮̩͎̦̖̣̯̐͌̔̌̽ỳ̸͔̻͕̠̠͖̊͐́̃̚͠͝o̴̻͖̣͉̭̠͈̓ͅų̵͉̫̠̭̟̬̱͕̈́͑͛͊̂̀̋̈́̑͝ͅ ̷͉̦͔͖͉͇̳͙̤̫͑́̎̋͆̌̍̈́͐̐̓̉̋͝͝s̷͕̞̮͚̘̭͚̬̯̝͚̫̒̐̋͛͂̌̒͐̾̋͂͛̄̚ȩ̴͕͓̮̟͆̉̄̉̀̈́̈́͗̃͐e̶̫͒̏̐̈̉̌̅͒̂,̶̧̥͍̯̘̔͠”̶̨̱͓̤̳̞̟̯̼̿̍͑̿͆͐͜͝ ̶̘̏̒͂̍̈́̃̎̋̎̕ṛ̵͓͉̺͈̠̮͎̝̂̂͌̇̾̉̔͠e̸̛̲̫̐̄́͋͠v̷̨̰̜͇͉̿̎̓ȩ̶̩̠̈̈̓͌̊̉̃͆n̵͕͖̯̻͙̙̜̞̫͖̲͈̠͕̾̋̀̽̈́̎͑̎͗͒̂̎̚͜͝g̷̢̊́̉̂̎̐͂͒͝e̸̳̫̠̰̝̺̪͍̲̣̻̎̉̿̈́̂͋͒̇͝ ̷̣̤̙̳̤̳͍̿͐̄s̶̤̠̙̅̌̇͊̍h̶͎̼̾o̵̭̱̖̰̘̅̆̽̐̽̉͂̑͆̈́ự̶̗̗͈̺̭̲͚̹̇͋̊͋͆̓̏̀̚͝t̴̢͇̲̜͖̝͕͋̆̑̈́̆͘̕ṣ̴̱̞̻̝͕̘̘̹̗̟͕̮̝͕͒̈͐͆̂͠ ̶̧̱̞̯̓̆̈͂̀̍̈̆͒͐̓͂̚ṅ̸̼͓̗͙̖̮̪̦͚̰͇̼̩̑͂̒̈̍̌̔͒̾̍̐̀͜ͅe̶͈̺̲͓̗͎̲̫̝̳̪͖͖̍̕x̵̢̮͇̲͉̠̖̩̮͎̩͖͎̔̎̄͒͂̅̂̍̐͊̓͜ͅţ̵̟͙̟̱͎̭̯̳̫̪̆̑͌̇͂̉̚͜͝ ̸̧͎͓̯̲̒ţ̴̡̻͖̜̭͙̥̘̭̱̰̐̌̀̒̋̆̈́̈́o̷̡̟̥͇̳̖̭̰̖̽̐̍̔̈́͛̓̐̐̏̚͝ ̵̮̻͍͓̥̳͆̉̄m̵̧̢̯͍͎̲̜̳̗͚̭̲̲̟̳̿̀̔́̆́͗͒͑͆̈́̐͛͠ę̴̢̛̭̤̱͚̪̳̝̳͎̰͇̳͐̔͒̎͊̈́̃͆̂́.̵̞̞̜͉͈̻͉̬͇͂

̸̧̨̢̧͍̤̫͙̖̖͉͈͉͐͊̃̚“̵̡̢̼̠̩̫̩͂͗̓̾̎̀̑̋̔̔́̈́T̴̨̧̡͎̩̜̥̻̍̈̑͒͊̌̓͂̆̋̅̆̚h̸̹͕͙̲͚͌̋͊ĕ̴̛̳͂̄̊̔̆̈́͘ ̴̢̨̡͎̣͓̪̟͔̘̝͙̳̥̦͗̔́́͂͗͘͘ș̷̛̦̦͇͈͔͇͇̅̃̆́͋̇̀̇̀e̴̡̡͕̱̫̥̖͓̘̱͓̲̼̮̿̀ͅä̵̧̗͎̼̹͖͚̘̳͖͍̻̉͘ ̷̡̟̼̼̩̝̫̟̥̭͚̣͇̫͒̃̿̈́́̈́͊͑̋̉͐̈́̉͂̚o̶̫̻̞̼̠̗̹͕̳͚̰͕͓͊̑̽̆͛͋͆͊͛͊̎̈̈́̽͠ͅf̶̛̗̭̦̓͋͋̇̓̄͛̅͌͗͘͝ ̶̯̝͔͕̈́A̸̛̘̠͚̼͔̞̠̰͕̤̱͂̔̈͑̑͊̚̚r̴͔̮͕͌͊̈́͐̽̕ċ̸̉̍͋̾̂͆̈̂̋͘͜͠a̵͕͍͚͚̲͎̠̙̹͍̦̦͑ḑ̷̬̝̤̘͈̰͇̇̓͑͋̈́̆̈̾̃̊͝i̶̩̯̠͑́͊̅͠ȧ̶̯̲̤̮͋̈̄̓͛̓̚ ̷̣͈̓͑͒̅̅̉B̸̢͖̞͖̬̟͓͇̯̪͌̉͆̇́͘͠a̴̧̞͈͍̭͔̳̤͖͙͎̥̞͙̤͗̿̏̓̓͆͘y̸̢̼̻̞̜͇̍͗̐̍ͅ ̷̫̚͜ḩ̴̮̖̪̟̖̩̱͆̓̏͌͘a̷̡͈̪̰̭̗͓̮̯̟̝͊̚ͅͅs̴̢̲̺͌̂̑̅̽͐ ̸̩̖͙̬͙̬͓̖͎̾̍͗͒̅̿̈́̅̃̽͜ģ̶̤͙̠͉̩͓͖̫̖̟̖͍̖͍͊̈́ơ̷͕̳̙̮͈̺̹̦̻͎̬̥̣̙͛̓̓̽̈́̎̋̍n̴̫̳͓̈̐̏̆͐̎̋̽̄͒͛͠͠ę̶̼̪͙̣͎͎̪̰̗̫͚̎̎͜,̵̡̭̬͓̻̱͕͉̫͋̈́͛̌̑̕̚ͅ ̵̢̡̥͍͈̪̗͎̟͕̓̊̿̏̐̾̽͘̚Ñ̷̻͍̺̜͎̪̗̪̖̟Ō̴͖ ̷̻͉͙͍̖̊̄̕O̸̪̘͕̼̬̯̟̭̭͉̜̜̤̓̈́̓͝Ṇ̴̯͈͉̭̗͗̓̎̇̽͊̈Ẽ̶̮̫̠̠͕͕̤͔̪͙̄̌̇̄̌͝͝.̶̡̘̟͖̗̥͇̻̔̆͆̃͌̈́̈́̑͛̓̏͠ͅͅ”̷̟̦͇̍̓̔͛͊̆̚ͅ

̶͈͇͓̯̲̟̫̹̘͈̘̄̃̔ͅ“̷̧̡̩̫̻̦̝̹̩͇͉͍̻̆͌̆̐B̷̹̟͔̝̙̯̻̮̼̗̮̀́ṳ̷̧̘̹̖̠̰̩͚̻͙̹̓͐̄̃͑͋̂͜͝t̵͇̻͎͂̓͂̈ ̵̹̭͊́̌͛̀͐͘͘͝t̷̟͔̮̗͖̹̰̼̘͐̍̎̉͘͜͝h̷̟̯̠͇͍̻͎̉e̸͈̳̬̗͍̟̲̩̻̙͒̔̓̆̒̒̀̈́͑r̴̡̖͈̞̦͓͙̩̮̖̤̱e̵͍̟͈̼̬̳̬̝͇̯̺͚̓̽̋̔̓͋͌͐ ̷̭̻̹̫̤̪̣̭̎͊ͅą̵̨̛̘͉͎̙͖̺̥̠̮̈́͂̄̽͑͆̀̈́̒͛̒͠͝ͅr̸͚̞̗͈̱̫͇̞̖͎͐̄͒͛̔͋̍͜͜͝ę̵̨̝̩̮̭͇͖̣̪͙̣͙̳̓ͅn̵̤̽͋̀̃̃̃̃̄͐͗͛̕’̸̢̫̖̜͉̤̤̟̒̇̏̋͛͠͠t̴̼̊̄̍̒͑̈́͐͊̃̃̾͠͠ ̴̧̘͖̜̹̠̳͕̬͉͎̄̔̌̋̀̀̒͆͝a̶͉̦͙̿͊͛ņ̷̻̪̙̜̪̹̳͓͖̥̈́̋̉͆͝ẙ̵̨̥̦͓̯̗̺̯̞͔̻̗͚́̈́͋͋͂̓̅̈ ̵̨̩̖̹̺̞͇̬̹̇͐̎̀̉͜͜p̷̢̨̜̳͖̝̰͙̬̰̬͈͚̥̌̑̈́̔̆̒̔̾̍̓̌r̵͔͖̹͚̔̅̈́̂̈́̆͝ȏ̷̡̨̬̙̙̬͚̞̮̭̱͈̦͗͑̒̿̉̔͂̊̀͘͝͝m̸̧̨̡̢̙͎̝̭̙̘͚͋̎̈́̋͊̓͑͛̈́̃͝͝i̴̧̙̝̭̤͙̳͖͍͙̥̠̝͑͋̆͆̑̉̊̋͂̚͜͝s̵̱͇̬̻͕̙̣͓͇̃̈̑͐̽̄ę̴̧̬̱͍̼̞̬̣̱̬̞͖͎͑͊̅̅̈͑s̷̩͖̻͈͙͔̻͎̊̏̏̉͌̿̄͂̊̓ ̸̨̧͍̳̰̙̣͉̭͔̳̱̪̓́̃̂̔̐͐ŵ̸̧̢̭̰̘̰̜̟̜̪͍̘͂̃̓̿̑͌̓̃̔͜͠͝͝ͅh̴̡̛̹͖̱͓̮̍̊̎̃͋̀̈́̕̚̕͠e̴̢̦͙͙͈͉̭͎͑̃̊̍̿̈́͌̕͠n̴̖̓͑͊̈́̈́͛ ̷̨̫̙͗͛̋̔̓̍͋͊̊̈́̕͝͝͝e̸̡̢̯͎̘̙̦̟̰̺̫̰̱͋͛͗͋̓̇̃̄̕͝v̵̹́̓̔̌̃̌̓͘ͅȩ̸̗͎͔̯̖̰͈͋̈̑͒̈́̍̅̂̏̏̊͆̕͠ŗ̶̡̨͔͚͚̼͔̓́͗́̆̿̚y̴̨̛̪̟̱͓̹̙̪͈͈̬̳̭̭̪̑͗̉̈́̐̔̕͠ ̷̛̠̣̰͙̺̹͇̲͋̋͂̓͊̋̊̓̋̉͑̈̅s̸͇̲͕̆̚ͅh̷͚̾̎̑̓̍̓̉̕͝e̴̛̤̪̜͖̥̟̿͒̿̄̽̂̌͜͝͝e̸̬͈͓̳̟̭̪̟͙̭̽̄͛̀̐͗̎̌̅̂̋͌͗͘̕ͅt̵̢̡̞̝͖͈͍͎̩͈̞̜̱̞̄̋͂̿́̍̌͗̈́͠ ̴̢̛̲̤̥̲̻̞̖̲̦̩̅͒̆͋̎̆́̏̆̂̋͛̇͂͜͜o̷̡̭̥̅͛͌f̷̢̫͙̖͉͔̫͘͜ ̷̧̫͂͘p̷̡̭͍̘̜̙̣̭̞͎͚͓͓͖̻̓͑̈á̵̛͙̗̜̟̳̬͖̘͙͙͎̗̥̺̒̐͌̏͛̎̈́̕͘͜͝p̶̛̘̯͎̠͕͍͉͔̞͖̳̫̻̲̏̍̏͌̏e̶̡̤̱̟̳̰̩͒͆͋̏̽́͆̔͒̒̋͗̍r̶͎͙̻͎̪̺̤̱̻̪̯̦̃͛̔̋̎̽̇̓̕͜ ̶̢̞̩͓̥̱̻͎̖̤͕̊́̔͛̋̐́̆̂̆͂̚̕h̶̨̛̲͔̠̲̤̱̗̟͚̓̔͐͂̎̽̿̿̐̕͝͝ȃ̵̧͕̪̰̟̲͚͓̰͇̠͈s̴̡͇̘̹̪̪͇̞̥͋͂̒͝͝ͅ ̵̡̡̨̺̪̙͕̘̪̆̈̃̎̑̍b̶̢̧̜̰̝͎͙̬̪͈̮̹̝̄̋̍̓̽͜͝ẹ̶̢̣̜͕̺̻̳̣͍͎̳͎͑̃̒͝ḛ̵̛̟̠̪̻̞́͑̇̓̽̓͑͋̚͝n̵̥̿͛̃͠ ̸̡̭͉̌̌͛͗̈́̚t̵̙̣̞͕̲͉̜̦̰̥̅͂̓͑͛͆̅o̵̢̪̙̰͇̝̗̻̤̫̠͝r̵̦̯͎̭͔̬̯̯͌ņ̶͇̯̗͎̤̟̤̟̊͑̾̒͛͋̎̉̃͘͜

̴̩͖̬͇̭͚̭͚̪̚ͅơ̴͈͈͎̥̱͔̣̹̹̣͕̋̈́̒̏t̸̨̢̧̧͓̘̞̗͎̣̩̻̯̖̍̑͒́̍̌̕ḧ̷̳̣̖́̾̈́͒̽̐̽͂̈́̆̈́͂͐̕͝è̶͙̙̙̫̌̋̇̂̑̌̀̌̂̌̾͝͝r̵̡͇̬̫̙̫̋̇͊̔̍̕͘͘͜͜͝s̵̩͙̽̈́̄͊͛’̸̧̨͉͇̫̺̲͍̭̰͚͇͕̽̒̂͒͗̕ ̷̧̦̫̓̓̈́̏͠b̷̹̗̭̯̟̫̈̐̋͋͊͊͝l̸̡̛̮̟͉͒̉̈̐͌̍̀̀͒̈́̒͘õ̷̢̬͖̬̙͔̊̉̿̑̇̆̚ǒ̷̳̣͎̤̮͈̮̍̒̾͆̄̓̉̔͌́̈d̸̙͚͇̼̯̟͔͍͍͖̪̪͇̑͑̔͂̾̂͑̐̚͠ͅ ̶̛̳̞͕̒̄̈́̎͂͗̆̎̉̒̚͘̕ẖ̴̛̇̎͆̋̂͒͐͠ą̴̡͚͙͎̭̮̺̳̮̲͖͙̏̈́̐̈́͊̋͑̕̕̕s̶̢͈̖͖͈͍̘̱̟͆̐̃̀̋̽̀̕͝͠ ̴̧̭̰̻̥̪̬͓͎̫͉̈́͌̿̑̏̏͘b̵͔͓̞͈͈̲͎̖̰̰̺̠̘͔̼̿̄e̸̢̧̞̺͕̥̳̍̂̓̿̉̍͌̆̂͂̃̊ë̵̛͇̰́͌̌͆̍̕͝n̶͍̪̜͂̏̍̾̃̀̄̿̔̽̍͝ ̶̛̫̦̦̞̦̂͗̈̀͐̎̈́̈̕̚̕͠͝s̴̡̛̠͙͚͖̣̪̗̦̫̪̤̰͓̅̈́̔̅ͅp̵̘̝͋̍̑̎͛̓̈́̓̑͠͠͠i̴̛̛͕̮̒͐̅̅̏͊͛̔̋͌̕l̷̡̢̘͓̦̣͈̫̖̼͇͓͈̈̀͋͊̊́̒̓̌̅̔͠͝͝͝ͅl̴̢̼̭͉̜̖̥͚̮̣̣͉̔̔͋͛̽̒̄̀͝͝͝e̴͔̤̫̟͍͖̗̩͙̘̊̓̒͗̐̍͗͒͂̈́̐̔͛̕͝ͅd̴̢̢̧̪̠̱̯̣̘͉̠̬͓͍͊͐̃̎̄͗̈̊͜͝ ̶͕͉̇̐͗͠f̴̟̼͈̙̑̈́͒̔̑͗͋̅o̴̥̱̩̣̭̘͍̣͇͑̓͛̑̌͆̏́͊̈͗̍̿͘r̸̭̖̮̙̯̽̓̐͊̈͜͝͝͝ ̶͍̝͒̇͐̕s̷̠̙̜͍̗̲̠͍̹̔̂̔͊̊ḧ̵͇̻͖͓̟̦̙͚̮̳͚̼̰̭́͆̎̈́̋̐͂͐͘ͅë̴̡̮̪̩̫͍̟͍͖̙̼͔̼͍͚́ ̶̘̠͔̝͖̥̩̣͔͎̾̉ͅḩ̷͎̘̗̥͕̖̣̲̩̖̰̠̀͛͗̎̓̚͠ͅa̸̛̲͈̎̏̓͛̄̊̀̚͜t̸̢̢̨̺̳̼̻͖̤͈͉͊̎͆͗ḩ̷̢̡͔̳̻̙͖͇̟̟̹̤͎̽̉̄̈́̃͊̉͝͠ ̸̧̧̗̦̝̝͇̥͕͓͎̰̥̇̊͌ͅa̷̝̹̰̖̪̙̮̬͖̓̽͠ ̴̹̭͐̎̔̐͗̐c̷̫͍̹̹̮̺͓̲̊̒͆̏͊͠ų̷̧̹͉͇̬̫̬͈̭͓͓̃̀̔̉͐͛͗̉r̷̡̢̡̩̗̦͕̹̘̊̃s̶̲̎̎ḙ̸̢̡̡̰̩̻͕̙͔̖͓͍̆͑ͅ ̴͎͙̩̬͈͙̜͓̟̪̈́̎̿̊̽̽͊́̾͛̂̂̕͝t̷̠̩̱̝̱̭̰͇͙̿̌̂̊̈́͊̃̇͂ḩ̸̢̤̯̪̦͇̱͚̳̟͓͖̩͍̉a̴̦̻͍̫̗͆̈́̌̎͋̄̕t̴̡̼͈̝͕̥̪̼̑̀͜ ̸̧̛̞͕̏͋́̓͐̾̑͐̕ȉ̸̛͔̿͗͊͑̚m̶̰̳̹̘̻̹̟͋́͠p̸̢̟̣͍͍̞͕̱̤̪̘̩̣͚̣̒̒̏̅͆͊̔̕a̵̡̛̐̕͠͝l̷͙̗̜̿͑͆͝ȩ̷̧̼̟͓͙̺̹̠̗̰̇͂͆̑̈͜d̴̯̖̣̍̉͆͑͑͌̾͗̚͝ ̴̢̛̲͍̲͈͇̙̘̝̟͈̪̄̐͊̅͊͘͝t̸͍̭̥͓̺̣̟̊̈͐̈́͋̂̈̚͠͝ḯ̷̢̡̠̲͈͙m̸̨͙̰̳̫̭̬͍͕̅̉̍̀͛̉̽̊̒͒̏͛̍̕͜͠ę̴̖͇͙̰͚͉̜̝̫̫̖̥̿̈͜͠ͅ ̷̹͆̎̎͊̊̆̄̒̕͠͝w̶̛͉͌̃̇̂̿̅̈̇̈́̚i̸̡̯̲̬͓̰̓̔̂͌͛̅̕t̶̢̳̬̹̟̙̜́̎̓͌̈̆̈́͑͆͗h̶̛̛͚͍̱͖̞̞̤̯̯͎̊͋̂̋̇̔̍͋̿ ̸̠͓̲͎̟͕̻͐͆̔̂̆̌̇͛̓͝à̸̬͇̱̲̎͛͊̈́̈́̈́͌̈͒̽̚͘͜ ̶̼̤̘̯͖̾͐͊̋̔́̈́̕͝t̴̛͉̖̖̯̮̗͍̲͍͓̬̞̽̽̏͆̿̾͒̋̽̅̾̚h̸̨̜̠͈̰̟̻̣̩͎̑͆̋͘o̵̺̖̮͙͊̆͝r̷̳̩̝̺̗̰̗͐̇͊̂̈́͐͜n̵̢̨̩̖̼̭̊͐̅̈̈́͋̃͜ͅ,̸̤̻̞̉̅̓͗͋̐̃̑̆͘͜͠͠͝͠”̴͖̉̽ ̸̬͆͑̎̊͌̆̀̇̈́̀̌́ͅ

̸̧̳̪̮̦̳͚̰̭̦̱́r̵̗͍͖͔̬̜͉͎̉̇͆̅̓̈́̎̐̂̿̾͜͠͝ȇ̵̤̭̖̩̭̺̫̺͙̗̜̒̈́͑̋͒̚͝v̶̛̫̫̹͔͓̈́͒̑̏̄̈̕ẽ̸̛̪̮̯̈͆̈͑͆͋̅͊͘͠n̵̢̧̬̻̘̫̫̪̦̱̣̜̺͛̓̈́̆̒̆͊̊̕͠͝g̴̬̙̔̈́͂̾͒͑̿̚ę̶̡̲͔̗̞̲̣͚̦͍̺̻̕ͅ ̵̡̲͓̗͗̎͑͆͑͑̈́͂̑̐͘r̶̢̗͙͉͚͖̜̩̜̤̮̠̋͒̎̐͐̇͆̒̾̉̄̑̚͜͠ͅê̶͓̠͇̼̖͖̲̠̳̰͉̯̻͙̏̑͆̆̚̚͝ͅc̷̨͖̹͉͉̤͕̟̪̪̯̆̆́͌̋̌ͅͅͅi̷̱͇̓̿̽̀̎̃ṯ̴̣̯͖͉̺͚̦̳̱͎͓̤̣͆̌͌̓ȩ̷̡̧̰͇͎̣̳̖̬͙̻̤͙͛̃̑̔͛͆̑̒̍̾͝s̸̛̬͎̙̥͇͚̹̍͂͑͋̐͑̓͌̓͒͗̚͝ ̴͎̳̿̿q̵̢̮̱̣̥̽ų̵̝̫̗̹̼͓̟̱̗̣̖̯̚͝i̸̡̧̨͚̦̟͎̰͇͚̜̒͒͊̋̓̏̓̄̈͘͘̚͜ę̸̧̤͎̖̻͍̘̰̙̿t̷̡̨̢̢̨͇͉̯̼͓͓̩̄̊͐͂̓̃̄̅͂͠ĺ̶̛͍̬͎̊̔͊̎̑̋̾̈̕͝y̴̜̠͔̬̞̬̻̦̼̫̾̅̉̋̈́̌̏̓̌̇͑̊̕͝͠.̵̜̤͕̒̄̈́̌͊

̴͓͈̤͍̥̮̄ͅǸ̷̛͎̤̗̮̍͑̑̂͌̈̈́̿̾Ò̷͔̫̥͙͔̮̟͖͍̯̥̓̊̈́̓͝ͅ ̸̻͇̒̎̎̈́̈́͑̒͐̓̑͋͝Ơ̸̧̧̛̹̤̫͕̪͚̙̲̳̈́͋̚N̷̫̠̆̒̇̋̋͂͆̍̽̋͘͠É̴̛̲̫͕̾̂͋̑͆̅͂̎͛͠͝ ̶̤̈́̿̔̍͛͊͋̀̚̕-̸͓̭̗͇̮̪̘̳̠̱̫̼͗̎̍̊̆̉̈́̇̋̓̽̉

̷̢͙͖̗̳̙̫̦̤̋̎̂̌͌r̴̥̦͇̩͎͖͖̿̄ͅę̶̨̧̢͎͓̖͕̖̲̲̩̟͈̉̇̈́̈͒͆͘͝ͅd̴̨̨͔͙̦͈͋̊̀͒͝ ̴͇̙͕̳͇̘̳͔̆̏̕ḿ̶͉̳̙̭̦i̴͍͒̈́̊́̇̍̒̾̉̂̿́͌ř̴̝̭͚̆ả̴͎̻̦͍̹̮̟͉̼̫̞̗͂̀̑͊ͅc̷͈̹̫̹̱̳̯̫͛̓͂̿̄͂̔̈̒̆͑͐̇͝l̴̡̹͓̮͖̖͖̜͚͕̭̥̋͋͆ͅe̸̵͔̗̅͋̉̽́̂̉̀̓̽̒́̅̂̇̓̈́̂̉̚̚͝͝͠

_this reality is so wrong, but i cannot budge. it is a terrifying nightmare you cannot escape. it cuts hooks into your eyelids and forces you to sit through._

Ị̶̱̲͓͉̣͎̜̰͚͚͍̈́̾̽͘͘̚͝ͅ’̶̧̡̡̺͙̺͇͉͉̙͉̜͚̤͂́̂͋̋̌̿͘͠m̵̜͚̘̃͝ ̸̨̨̡̻̣͚͎͚͈̆̂͊́̄̐̀͂̍̈́̕̚͜͝ͅͅt̵̬̻̜̞̲͎̍͒́̅̿́̍͊̎͐͘͝ͅi̴̡͍̦̥͔͍̥̤̪̺͌͑̀̑̋̀̄͐̾̽̓̚͝͝͝r̸̨̰̠̣̖̫̞͖̦̥̺͐̊̀̇̽e̶̺̼͎̾͑̃̓̌̏̑̕͝d̸̡̛͚̙̠̞́͂̇̅̉̓̐̇̾͋̑͐.̵͍̬͇̬̠̥̠͎̙̮͐͆͗̌́͗̎͜͝ͅͅ ̷̡̧̼͈̣̜͇͇̥̱̪̄̒̎͑͂͐̉̈́̎̊̾͝Ṋ̸̡̧̙̻̳̯̫̤̦̑͌̅͛͐͑͆̓̒͊̂͌͜ͅư̷̧̛͚̺̠̠̳͙̲̎̊̄̈́͌̄̂̑͒̚͜m̶̨̭̲̺̞̖̮̟̆̍͋͂͐̍̋͌̾͑̏̇̋̕b̶͚̫̤̖̪̬̮̱̯̻͙̪̫̥͋̇̇ͅe̶̛͕͍̗͇̲̣̲̠̠̻̅̽̂̅̄͘d̸̙̦͉̟̝̖͖̼̒̔ ̸̹̐̋̇̀̕l̷̞̘͕̳̬̪̭̦̥̱̪̙̠͖̖̀̍̍͒̋̐̽̽̔̑͑͘͘͠i̸̛̛͈̻͙̘̟͖̗͐͗͐̉̾̌̃̈̑̚ͅm̶̼̹̮͚̪̟̝͖͈͉̘̦̭̤̄̅̐͌͌͌̎̆̄̕͘̕b̵̨̧̫͉̩̟͙͙͜͝ͅs̵͎͕͖͈̟̼͓̼̟̝̐̍͗̐͐͆͜,̸̨͍̞̰̙̭̻͇͆̂̒̑ ̷̨̥͈̻̩̰͔͙̦͕̥̾̋̓g̴̪͛̐͊̔͌̔̓͐ö̶̬́n̴̦̗͕̉̐͑̆͝e̷̙͕̹̫̠̻͍͚̰̠̝̻̬͌̏̊͑̍̏͆̿́̂͜͝͠ ̵̢̡̼̭̲̤̘͚̳͖̲̲̤̬̪͊̔̃̇͗̓̑̃̕͠͝b̷̡̺͍̤̃̓͋͒̾̄͒͂̃̐́̚͝ͅl̸̡̘̠̼̜̤̟͚͕̬̝͎͍̉̿͑̂̊̃̊̈̉̈́͛̂͝i̵͓̙̒̅͌̀̓͌͌̔̎̉̉̑n̷̫̙̰̖̣̠̪̬͎̗͚͆̄̏̀̍͌̉̈́͠d̶̢̥͉͉͐̒̐̍̿̆̏̈́͋͗̕,̴͕̹̭͙̲̻͕̤̞̯̣͉͍̆͒̽̎̈̔͒̀͜͝ͅ ̸̨̣̼̓̽̂̉̎̈́̆̆̒̽͂̈͠͝ą̸̮̼̌̿̑̒̋̄̕ͅn̸̡̦̫͚͈̘̙͚͈̔̑̓̾͗̈́̑̾̽̓̈́̅̓ ̸̨͔̟̮̬̣͇̘̯̮̦̌̍͗̎̒̑̅̑͘͠N̵̲̱͔͔͇͎̟̊̐̾̇̐͋Ỏ̶̯̰̫̼̝̙̣̟̤͍̚ͅ ̷̞̳̭͇̠̈́̐̒͌̍̈́̇͌̅̎̌O̸̡̝̟̞̬̙̝͇͇͍̹̟͚͒͜͝Ṉ̴̺̦̱̥̀̎͆̽̽̃̑͛̂̎̍̊È̸͓̭͎͇͔̫͚̖̱͚̘̺̒̈̽̾̾̃͗̔͌̚’̶̧̢̣̤̣̠͚̟̞̳͔̏̔̒̈͑̕͝Ŝ̴̞̫̮̬͇͎̹̬̟̤̬͗͑̐̓̒̈́̏̿͐͂͘ ̵̙͎̪̊̅̓v̵̢̙̭̯̤̟̜͈̠̣͉̭ͅơ̶̻̐͌̊̉̄̀̒̋͗̚͝͝͝͝ǐ̸̢͉͔͇c̸̢̧̡͍̮̯̘̭̼̳̳͒̓̅̍̒͑͋̈́͒̅ẹ̶̰͈͇̞̳̭̻̲̭̠̖̬͖͕͛̀͆̉̔͋̇ ̴̢̫͙̹̌̄̈́̊̐͂͑́i̵̻̼̰̻̜̝͔͑͋͛̿̋̊̆̉ṅ̸̛̗̰͎̬͕̹͓̯̇̈́̿̓͘͜͝ ̵̡̢͙͙̜̬̳̲̑͊͑m̸̨͚̙̪͚̮̬͕̠̘̜̒̿̀͗̍̇͗y̵̨̜̣̙̪̩̺̲̪͖̭͚̒̈́͜ ̶̪̖͎̱͕̣̌̂̾̊͂̈́̏͂͝ĥ̶̻͓̫̼̪͇̣̼̭̤̳̙̊͛̐̂̇̚ẽ̵̢̧̪̙͔̳͕̭̪͓͎͍̦͊̂̈̽̒̏̄̉͒̒͠ͅa̶̮̼͙͐̊̽̌͘͝d̶̢͉͕̤̮̹̩̯͊͗͗̃͑̾͒̕̕̕͜͝ͅ,̸͓̪̖͈̦̻̯̮̄̍̌̂̄̊̔̑̏͘͜ ̴̢̧̢̧̦͍͕̙͇̤̹͙̝̥͛̆̽̑̓̆̂͒̋̈̉f̶̭̣̠̥̜̱̉̿͘͠ͅͅl̶̨͔̟̦̪̺͇̜̙͕̏̑͐́̉͝ͅa̴̛̙̹̺̻̺͚͎̠̔̈̓̃͂̔̈́̆͊̕͜͠w̷̹̘̣͔̬͒̃̋͛̂̈͐̐ȅ̴̛̼͈̩͒̌̾͌̀̿̿͜ḋ̴̗̆̈̅͑͊̃͗͐̕̕͠͠ ̶̨̧̨̡̙̖̻̗̲̹̳̤̺̞̩̄̿̈́̄̀͛̎̂͝f̵̛̯̦̮̩̰̯͕͇̯̤̩̻̳̻̓̔͋̒̒̒̀͝͝ȃ̴̩̟̩̼͋̆̆̆͛́̐̒̕t̴̰̝̟̙͖̦̤̬̚e̶͚̠̦̪̱̪̳̭͔͉͎̜͚͓͗͗͑̽͒̅̉͛̈́̄͜͠͝s̵̟̯͛̐ ̷̧̠̫̘̱͔̱̦̂̓͜c̶̡̛͍̺̮̬͍̥͖͖̺̩͖̻̏̿̿̈͗̂̈̑̿̚̚͠a̷̬̮͍͈͆̂̅̓̄̓̽̈̈͠ͅu̸͕̯͍̦͇͙̳͑͒̊͛̓̃̈̇̀̈̚š̵̨̧̢̯͙̝̮͔̲̺̼̪͕̏ę̸̧̞͕̥͎̻͕͈̖̜̹͔̓̚ͅḓ̷̤͕͍̞̙͝ ̶̭͓̹̠͛̃̚b̷̡̹̱̭̹̟̭̯̪̫͈͓͇̘͌͂̍̈́͋͌̃̍ͅy̷̰̺̼͖͇̻̼͔͙̯̠̬͐̊̑͌͊̒͂͜ͅ ̵̧̨̢̛̙̝͉̤̘̝̾̈̆͌̍̅̅͊͝m̴̧̢͎̥̝̯͔͇̰̫͚͚̑̎͛͗̂͜͝ỷ̷̱̪̼̬̯̱̠͓̞̹͓̦̒͋̅̐͜ ̴̻̐a̶̫̟͔̯͎̪͕̲͍̜̩̰̐̐̈́̔̒̔͊̎͛̽̏̏̑͘͜c̷̢̲̱̘̥̳̥͈̰̔t̶̛̛̳̞̤̓̈́̈́̉͛̑̇̔͛̕i̴̪̬̤͖̜̬̋̍́̐̈́̈́̀̋͗̃̓̔ö̶̖̦͙̘̞́̾́̌̊̔̃̈̌̚͠͝͝͝ņ̶̨̨̟̥̺̹̘̯̏̔̂͌̈́͊̎̃̒̀̕s̵̢͍̰̳͚͉͈̩̦̺͈̺͈̑̊̈̎̈̕͠.̸̯̫̬̜̥͇̦̪̤̈́̅̽͛̂̇́̉̈́̈́͘ ̵̛̩̤͙̺̺̝̫͍N̷̦̫̖̲̜͇̦͐̎̇͗̑̔̾̕̕͝ò̸̧̨̧̨̲̰̤͇̱͙̪̘͇̿̓̽̋̈́̂̊̇́ẅ̴̡̢̛̤͍̹̰͚̲́̄̃̈̄̀̑,̵̨̭̎̓̆͛̒̄̌͘̕͘͝ ̷̨̮͇̟̜̻̯̙̣̞̰͚̺̾̃̂͝͠ͅͅI̸̡͖̰̯̞̠͒͋͗’̵̤̣̱̟͔͇̘̙͕̑̾̇͌͑͒̌̅̆̈́͒̚͘̚͝m̵̬̬͍̫̲͍̣͚̒͗͊̾̈́̈́̈́͛̎̽̚͜͠ ̵͓̞̂̃́͆f̸̢̢̡̛͎̗̼̪̼̿̓̏̓͂̀͂͑̄̀̑͒e̴̳͚̙̫͆̈́̔͊͒̈́̋̋̈̂̇̚͝ė̷̛͓̭̟̮̱͊̊l̷̲͔̜̓̔̾͛̐i̶̺͕̬̰̳̺͍̔̄n̶̤̘̺̦̞͔͇̙͔̲͓͎̜̠̂͛̊̃͛̒̔͒͘͝ĝ̴̨͇͓̙̠͓͚̪̙̺̺͎̤̒ ̴̣̫̦̹̿̋̋m̴̭̠̙̮͈̼̠͇͇͎̓̀͑͒́̾̊͘̕͘ỷ̶̱̺̇͐̊̆͘̕s̷̡̡̟̲̙̜̘͍̬̝̩͇̉̈́͐̈̂̌̒̌̂͘̕͝͝ě̵̪̯̠̻̭̪̬̅̇́̚ļ̷͖̲͓̝̰̥̹̺̲̗̹̙͙̕͝f̴̧͖̩̼̗̘̼̲̣͕̺͆́͝ͅ ̶̡̛͔̥̰̭̗̻͐̅̄̈̋͊͝p̶̮͖͙̹̖͓̲̘͂́̀̌͝ă̶̛̛͉͍̳̟͕͍̬͙̹̗͉̭̜͒͌̔͋̔͌̂̽̇ͅs̴͉͈̋̔s̵̙̥͍͉̺̆̈̋͂͗̎̂͜i̸̢͚͇̞̻͕̤̳̺̖͕͐̑͆̏̂͛̋͑̒͝v̶̢̧̡͔̗̝̘̥̬̣̝̯̇͊̍̏̉̎ȇ̶̛͈̘̰̣͕͇̻͔̩̳͎̝͆̽́͒̏́̓̃͗͌͒͘͝ͅ ̵̨͉̿̏͛̄̊̽̾̅̚p̴̘̰̯̲͇̜͈̥͗͒͂͑̇̃̏͋̑͜͝͠ͅą̶̩̜̬̥͎̩͔̠̬̮̦̗͋̐̐̇̾͆͂͋͗̕͝͠ś̷̡͇̲͇͚̗͇͎̞͚͗̊͑͗͌͌͝ͅͅs̶̛̟̭͇̽͆͌̿̎į̶̙̥̙̝̪̙̪̱̫̜̖̲͑̐͌͌̍̄͜v̶̡͚͉͚̺̺̰̹̰̺̼͓̺̾͒͆̊̆͐e̵̖̗͊̍̈̓̅̾̎ ̵̧̙̈́͗́͂͑̔p̵̨̳̮͕͖̭̻̥̼͉̋͆̆̊ả̵̧̡͇͎͔͎̪̊̈́̐̀̓̈̃̏̕͜͜͠ͅs̴̩̤͍̎̇̉̇͑̇̕͘͝s̶̫̣̲̱̤͈͎̦͑͌̈͋̇͂̇͠ỉ̷̛̟̏͛́̌͐̕͝͝v̷̠̱̬͉̬̻̪̌̆͆͌̎̓̕̚e̵̮͛͂̃͋̓̾̀̏̈́͌́̚͝͠ ̸̢̜̬̱̘̝̻̯̮̓̉̽̋̐͛͘͜͝ͅp̶̟͙̼͚̂͒̌̏̋̅̈́̇̐ͅa̷̞̩͍̫̋̋̚͜s̶̼͖̲̹̙̺̩͔̜̔ş̸̡̛͔͕̪̖̩̯̭̲͎̞͈̳͆̌̐̔̾͒̕͝͝͝͝î̸͈͎͕͚̳̖̝̒̚ṿ̵͇̹̪͓̠͈̥͙̪͚̤̦̎͜ȩ̴͚̲̻̬̭̻͓̤̈́̒̏̏̔̈́̕͘̚̕͠.̷̡͚̭͙̫̙̤̍̐͜ͅ ̴̨̛̛̠̿̾̅̔̿̊͑͑̓̀͘̕͠ͅE̷̡̢͙̗̘͚̘̣̔͐̀͌̀̃̎̚͘͝r̷̡͇̺͕̗͎͕͚̻͚̠̟͙͈̀͌͆̽̔͒͊̌̇̑̑̚͝i̶̹͑͐̐̑̈́̿̄͆̏̏c̶̨̪͉̤̤̩͛ ̴̻̦̜͉̤̯̘͇̮͈͉͇͉̥͛̀̋̑̽̐̇̆̂̄̚c̵̨̡̤͕͈͚̙͂̓͘ả̸̡̮̿̑͌̏͝ͅn̸̨͓͚̭̰͖͍̗̩̪̣͔͉̦͜͝͝n̸̪̓̎͗̏̈̈́͘ở̸̢͉̺͕̳͖̼̩͇͖̠̻̟̠̅ţ̸̠̬̠̤̗̟͍͇̗̣͒̍̌̿̔̅͗̈́͒͘͜ ̶̘̖̩͍͕̲̫͍̲͕̓͌͋̆̎̊̔̆̔̐̀͗͛͝d̴̬̖̳͙̩̠̘̄͋̇̃̈̐̕͜͜͝͝͝r̴̢̛̲̙̪̀͒̄́̋̀̓̄͘i̶̛̞̗̯͉̦̙͇̥͕̳͓͋͊͌̍̽̃̅̌̊̋͘v̷̦͋͂̌̉̓͐͆͘̕ë̷̮̱̜̯̲̖͕̤͓̫̞͉̩̺͇́̋͒̿̓̓͐͑͗̈́̑̏͠ ̶̛̝͈̜̬͒̋͛̈́͛̿̾͘͜͝͝͝m̶̨̺̎̎̌̋̈́e̶̟̥̦̊̐̊̀̂̿̑̎͒͘ ̶̨͖̳̯̪͎̩̜͕͒͌́̏̊̒̚̕͠a̶͚̠͉̼͕̣̜̾̈́͐̈́͗̓̿̍̓͆͒ͅͅw̶̢̥̱̙͔̼̼̦͖͇̟̟̾̋̎̑̌̿̏̈́͝ả̷̢̝̰̜̦̙̖̖̀͗͋̚ý̴̡͍͔̼̟̮̞̓̑̅̎͒͛̔͗͗͋̽͘̕ ̵̼̗̬͈͓̯̪̘̓̅̽͌̉̚f̵̣͔̱̦̽̅̉ͅr̶̺͎͓̟̩͛͐̉̉̎͐̒́̚o̷̳̩͉͍͖̯̤̯̼͆̅̏̉͑̑̄͆͆̅͝͠ͅͅm̴̉͆̌̋͘ͅ ̴̬̔͌̅̇̉̑t̷͓̱̠̞̻̱͎̪͖̪͙͇̙͛̽͂͌̽͑͌͗̿̆̅͒̚ḣ̴̝̯̥̰͈̱́̾̅̂͋̍̊͂̚̚͘͝i̵̧̧͇͕̱̻͔̤͂͑̋̊̄̅̽̚s̴̨̩͉͕͙̠̯̉͋ ̷͓̦͉̤̠̻̂̐̓͐h̷̡̧͉͚͈̳̣͈̪͈̯̙͖̜͌͐͐̐̀̏͠ĕ̴͖̼̙̮̻̝͑̉ͅļ̴̧̳͍̪̖͉̜͙͔̻̯̈́̊̔̽̅̀̂͋̈́̉̇͜l̸̡̨̪̤̜͔̖̲̺̮̅̈́̿̈́̎͑̓͐h̵̪͌̋̅̃ǫ̷̰̻͍̽́́̓͌̐̎̄̀̌͋͝͝ĺ̵̨̲͔̺̈́͑̍͌̔͐̓̚ȩ̷̧̠͎͕͎̻͔̬́̎ͅ ̷̡̲̤̘̱̺̠̿̋͒̔͝ͅn̵̡̨̛͔̱͙̭̜̱̞͍͑́͑̓̍͌̍̈́ͅő̴̢̗̰̯̹̫͉̮̹̟̞̮̳̥ṙ̴̲̼̤̼̥̬͕̲̹̞̝̉͑͆͊̓͗̉̉͆̈́̅̓͠ ̵͓̝̈̑̈́̃̈́̓̄̚c̶̡̳̗͔̲̗̞͇̝͍̈́̂͆a̶͍͈͇͔̗͛͐́̎̅̏̆̓n̴̮͇̲̺̜͚͙͈̈̄ ̶͙̼͇̱̘͎̭̞̦̖̝͋̓̅̏͐̈́͒̉̔̕͝ͅh̷̘̳͕͖̤̚e̸͉̦͆̓͘͝ ̵̳̹̳͙̜̙͎̃̔̄͋̉c̵̢̛̛͔̬͔͖̰̬͌̌̒̎̄̈́̏̍͑̊̀u̸̡̜̼̣̥͕͉̩̺̲͔̬̓̈́̾ŗ̴͎̺͚̮͉̹̹̣͇̙͙̝̱̼̉̌̔̅̎e̴̙̺͕͍̯͍̱̻̣̠̦̭͊̀̉̾̿̋͊̅͜ ̵̨̨̯̬͓̣̳̝̭̬͕̦̜̘̎̇́̐̆̀̓̾͌̚͠t̵͍̝͓͇̜͕̐̓͐̊̾͂̐͋́͐ͅh̵̬͎̞̹͊̊̍̑͗͑͌͊̀̈̃͘ę̷̫̘̭͕̝͍̺̤̾̔̈́̔̔͘͝ ̵̢̙̰͇͂̑̔̅̽͋͊͘“̶̝̙̺̳̆̆M̷̡͙̞͖͔̖̩̫̂̆̎͜͠a̶̯̩͎̭͑̎̇́̈́̃̈́̿̋͠x̴̹͋”̴͙͈̱̪͔̯̗̳̜̄̏ ̴̳̹̆͛̋̾̈́̉̒̈͠͝t̶̥̑̓̒͐͘͝͠h̷̨̫́͒̂̒͊̀̕e̸̟̹̦̫̣̤̭͔̳͎̪̒̃̋̐̌͌͂̿̿̂͒͘͝ͅ ̷̤͗̀̚͝f̷̢͎͉͎̳͍̬̻̰̪̠̺̦̭͊̒͋͌̈́́͝į̵̡̛͙͖̮̠̒̌̏̓̄͆̑̕͝ȩ̶̭͚̀̓̑͗̚ṋ̴̩̝͕͉͖̭̣̽͌͐̈́̄̇̆̅́̂̕̕̚͘͜͠d̵̢̛̦̟̩̺̫̦̫̣͉̮̼̭̭͂͐͆̈́̐̔͜ ̶̛̠̬̤͇̳͚͓͉̘̀̈̔͌͐̿̈̅͒̔̊͝h̶̡̝̘̥̤̤̳͊͂̈̚͜͝ả̴̢̛͕̤͔̱̟̬͈̫͓̦͈͋͊̍̐̕͝s̵̹͍̤̫̬̝̲̗͑͑͊͑̀̀̚̕ͅ ̸̰̮͛̄̈͌̊̆̐̆̽̉͘̕͠͠t̷̢͚̖̟̜̹̱̻͇͎̙͖̮̅̇͝ͅͅơ̸̧̻̝̙̝͖̺̈͝͠ͅl̵̠͈̬̗͖̯̫͓̞̠̦̫̈ͅd̵͕̠̱͈͚͔̰̱̏̌̓͂́̐̉̊͗̍͝ ̴̨̻̦͔̼̰̖̥̖̬͔̞́͋̐͌̂̂̂̿̅͘͜m̴̧̘̬̟̥̟̥̰͐̅̍̃̐̌̈́̓̃͊͒̓̅̀̒ĕ̷̖̥̭̥̌͋̋̅̀͝ ̶̨̺̦̜̳̝͓͈̞̪̣͇̥̱̥̋͂́̏̃͗̕ẫ̷̡̮̝͇͉̩̫̝̞̪̬̼͠ͅb̶̢̢̠̯̳̏͛̊̌̋̔͝ǒ̵͕̅̈̽̄ų̵̻̮͖͚̍͑̌̌͗̈́̓͝ẗ̵́ͅͅ.̸̛̛̙̦̤̯̞̠̹͚̹̏̇́́̈́̒̎̃̈́̅̾̏͜͜͝ ̸̡̙̤̥̘̖̼͑̈́͂̄̐̐̅͘

_shake yourself free!_

Ȋ̴͓͙͉͋̃͒͌̓͒̇̃̒̅͘̕͝ ̷̨͔̙̹̠̬̭̦͉͇͎̾̀̒̊̚ͅĵ̶̨̛̝͕̰̳̜͖̲̩͚͚̫̼̽̽̓̐̊̌̐̿̄̈̽̂u̶̦͍̞̮͖͂̌̅̚s̴̹͉̻̝̀t̶̨̧̫̮̠͙̲̼̬͗͐̓̓̾̋̈́̂̿̽͝ ̷̛̛̭̻̘̦͍̮̣̬̂̓̓̈́̓̔͗́̕̚w̶̠̝͓͖̹̙̄̾̂͑̃̓̈́̕ͅą̸̧̛̻̻̜͍̟͗͋̄͆͋̉͊̄͆͂͋͘͝i̸̢̮̹̜̝͔͇̜̳͌̐̔ţ̸̧͓̩͈͙̘̘̮̟̈́ͅ ̵̧̖̠̝̝̲̗̥͙̠̰͕́̀̍ǔ̸̡̖̩͒́́͆̍͑̈́͗͒̒̌͝͝n̴̫̟̰͔͔͇̲̬̻͔͍͙͈̊̌͒͐͝ͅt̴͇̠̪͈͌i̴̹͕͒̂̈́͐̎̄̊͛͘̚͜l̸̢̫̒ ̵̡̯̗͕͇̺̎͑̎̎̚ḯ̵̢̨͈̥̫̭͖̜͕̺͇̯͇̭̐̎̊̂̓̚̕ͅẗ̵̬̞̞̜̪͓͍̻̗͖̜̤̤̹͉́͊̍̔̄͗̈̾̂͝’̶̙͔͖̜̪̖̙̝̭̝̞̆̔̌͋̉̈́̅̈́͜s̶̘̯͚̪̜̯̏͒̊͋͝͝ ̸̯̟̝̔̋̋̑͌̊̚͝͝t̵̰̝̯̰̰̖̖̃͂͗i̸̢̞͚̫̭̩͙̥͌̐̽́͛̓̍̽̃̂̕m̶̺͖͐͊̒̚e̸̡͓͎̳̺̯̺̬̱̺͎̎͗̐̈́̄̐̿̐̌̇̓.̴̧̢̛̜̺̦̺̻̙̣̤̘̺̝̹̥̋͛̊̍̓̀̀͘͝ ̵̧̡̻̩̙̥͙͕͓̱̱̻͛̈́̔͋̓̉̓͘͠ͅŢ̷̻̟͖͎͇̈́͆̂̑̽̌̄͋͜ͅi̴̡̢̢̳͍̥̺̺̼̜̱͈̱͉̣̓̊̊͛̌̕̚m̸̟̘͚͖͕̯͓̊̍̾̓̏̓͝e̵̬͕̘̎͗͋ͅ ̵̡̙̫͍͈̎͗̏̆̄͛̋̑͂͘̕͜͠t̵͔̤̥͈̯́͑̎͌͌̑͗͊͒̿̽̿̚ơ̶̡̳̮̟̘͇͕̘̣̞̥̹̦͚̓̃̋̓̋̀̈́͝ ̵͈͔͇͎͐̿g̸̮̘̗̳̱̗̥̝̗̃͊̌͠͠ͅō̷̡͙̰͓̭̪̘̫̭̰̥̗͐̌͛̍̌͛͗͛͆̓̚ ̷̜̳̻̳̂͗͑́̕͜͜b̸̯̺̹̼̭͍̩̞̟̯͍̞̰̦͛̅͛͜͝a̶͉̳͊̇̎̏̚c̷̠͎̞̓̎̿͂͌́͒͑̂̈́k̵̳̝̹̝̱̰͂̍̾̈̽̓̍̈͐͛̔̏̍̓ ̵̯͕̮̮̲̜̖͗̇͐͊̈͝t̵̢͉̩̩̭̂o̶͔̹̮̮̪̖̣̲͔͚͔̫͙̔͑̌̓͝ͅ ̷̨̱̦̮̖̠͖̠̞̤͓͆̄͌̑ͅ2̵͉̝̹̭̼̮̤͉̒̋̉͗0̸̡̧̛̱̖̘̩̻͉͍̗̦͖̭̲̄̓̈́̍̊̐̐̚͝1̸̛̲͉̞̝̳̫̆̇̉͊̇̈̃̐͒̅3̵͚̪̎̒̎̍̇̈́́̀̒̃͌̕͠͠ͅ ̴̧̠̰̭̬̭̦͉̻̈́á̷̡̩͖̍͂̋͑͌̅̍̂̊͘͝n̵̥̭̜̞̤̭͑͌̔̋̍̂̎̏̔̒̐̃̚͝ḑ̸̧͕͎̞̫͚̩͓͈͈̫̊̾͌̉̆̋̃͒͠ ̸̧͇̙̱͈̫̊̋̊̇͝r̸͎͖̙̺͈͍̙̪͍͊͛͠ͅę̴̩̮͌̾̈͆̉̂̏̽̓v̵̨̧̫̱̲̪̱̤͖̫͋͊ȩ̷̨̣̣͚̅͋̂̿̐͆̚͠ŕ̵̭̠̮̖͈̘̺͇͚̭̅͒̾̌̔̈͛̒̔̒̉ͅt̵̼̻̺̻͖̍̄̈̆̽̽̒̓ ̸̨̨̜̱̥̹̘̼̘̙̩͖̠̼͂̄̿̓̈̈́͒̎̍̈́̋̆͘͜͝t̴̨͌̄͛͋͐͑͝o̷̞͎͕̤̺̔̾͛̎͑̿̉̉͆͜ ̵̨̨͖̦̪̪̭͇͖̥̭̯̜͙͕̓̒̉̔͒͑̀͒̌́̿͘̚̕͠o̵̙͗̓͋̉͒̅t̴͇̳̙̰̟̜͇͉̙̘̙̓ͅh̸̨̢̧͙̠͚̚͝ȇ̷̢̡̮̘͉̜͙̗̞͆̐̒̓͜͜ͅr̷͔͙͗̅̈́̀͗̌̃͑̔̇̈͒͘͝ ̶̨͓̯͇͔̫̳̤̼̺͔͉̃́̄̀̈͆̑͒̅̈́͋̽͋̔̑n̴̢͈̥͕̙̯̘̺͐ü̸̟m̸̛̻̹̺͔̥̫̱̣͆͂̽e̷̝͊̌͋͆̆̏̾͆͂͑r̸̛̰͕̯̬͉̱̣̭̄̍̓̈̿̓̐̉̒̕ͅo̵̡̹̳̼͓͛̾ũ̵̧̧̙͚̥͈̙̞̭̘͛͒̽͒͝͠s̴̡̡̤̖̰̯̲̙̖͉̫̙̥̾͐̈̂̌̅͌̀̀̽͠͠ͅ ̵̢͙̺͈̟͇̪̜̩̾̎̍̅̋̐̅̓̚a̵̛͕̪͓̩̬̝͎͕͚͓̹̼̥͒̇͊̐̄̈̈́̈́͠ẗ̶̰̞̲̌̈́̿̋̈͑͝ͅẗ̷̻̖̗͓̝̳͖̰́̈́̑̋̚ĕ̵̞͋̔̒͆ḿ̵̧̨͎̖̤̩̙̼̝͍͓̫͚̭̈́͆̒̂͗̕͠p̶͇͚̟̩̲̌̓̌͗͗͝t̴̛͙͔̍͑̒̿̏͌̎̏͑̋ͅs̷̘̓̒̂̆̌̌̔̊̔ ̴̡̧͚̣͍̬̫͉̳̰̩͗̏̊͜͠t̵͎̗̐͛̄̈́̆̃̉̏̕͝͝͝͝o̸̡̻̯͎̠̠̭̰̔̈́̇̀̈́̔̚͝ͅͅ ̶̟̖̺̠̤̟̇͆̏͆͑͊͝ͅk̴͙̘͍͖̙̑̌ͅi̷̝̘̤̺̓̋͐̈́̾̂̃l̴̺͍͇͂̆̑̓̈́̒̓̓̿̎͋́̚l̸̗̭̭̐̉͗̂̋̚͘ͅ ̶̩̯̮͌̑͗à̶̢̟̣̲̈́̉̔̈̉͒̽͠n̴͙̬̥͎̺̞̝͎͓̩̜̉ͅd̸̥̣͓͓̥̬̪̙͌̒̌̄͝ ̶̣̙͚͐̇l̸̢͖͕̞̹̞̟͖͍̋̾͊͑̍̑ͅe̷̺̠̣̘̤̫̫̰̣̔ț̷̡̝̦͈̟͕̣͖̺̾́ ̸̡̲͈͕͍̰̠̠͈̌̐̋̓̃͂͝͝ͅͅͅt̷̺̝̗̻͚̭͌̽͌͐h̵̫͉͕̰͓͙̙̫͓̬̥̓̈̂̏͌̇͊̍e̴̫̔̉̔͛̌̆̽̄̍m̷̡̨̬̗̮̾́̽̈́͑̀̿͆́͆͘͝ ̵̨̢̛̙̲͍̤͉̱̩͙̜͎̈́̂̀͌͜d̴̩̮͉̟͎̠̪́̈́̈̈́̇̈͜i̴̞̫̫̦̲͇͓̺̬̒͆̂̑̕̕͝ę̵̢͚͓̱̥̫̗̩̰̮̃͛̍͜ͅ ̶͚̓̈́-̷̮̙̖͈̻̜̪̦̄̀̑̅͊͒m̷̰͔͕͉͉̫͎̝̮̿͛y̷̢̙͇͙̞̙̮̜̑̂̒̊̾̄̇͑̚ ̴͓̥͇͆͋̈̍̃̀̀͌̓͊̈́̕w̵̧̛̻̜͍͖͔̤͚̟̘̏̏̍̓̈́̊̑̓̊̂̚ͅḩ̷̛̖̝̩̮̲̫̐̉̎͋̅̌͋̃̏̓̾̚͝ͅǫ̶̲͔̭͈͓̞̱͎͝ľ̵̮̀̒̏̔͂͆̈́͆̇͆͛̏̿ë̴̪͔͎̼̥̜̳̫̥͕̺̬̟͖̯́̉͗͐͗̂͌̌͑̈́͌͝͠͝ ̴̟͌̽͐̉̏̾͑̓̕͝c̶͇̱̲̙̮͉̟̟͕̔͆̌͒͗̓̅̿̌͘̕͝͠ơ̴̢̗̯͔̼̤͑̎̾̎̒̇͆̚̕̚͘n̵̢̡̢̳̩̖̘̪̭͓͙̻͉̽̆̌͌͒͋͠ţ̸̢̟̤̻̜̟͖͈̙̝̹̣̦͇̐̀̓͊̉̆̆͛͑̑̉̚̚͝r̴̖͌̉͌͋͛̿̑͘͝͝a̵̝̿̑͠͠p̶̡̞̋͒͒̽̏͊͆͛͘t̷̘̝̯̗̃͋̎́͘͝i̴̫̯̺̯̗̔̋͊̌͐̌̎̎̊̍̕̚ò̶̡̢̧̼͍̻̱͍͉̱͔̳̓̉̽̏̊̓n̵̢̛͖͖̰̥͈͇͓̭̣̯̞̦̙̅̾̄͌̊̃ ̸̡̛͚̼͈̹͎͒̓̊̋̐̈̕͘̚͠o̶̞̲̰̠̮̹͎̦̓̉͐̌̾͛̂̚͝ͅf̷͉͇͖͇̖̞̼͚͈̈͆̈́̇̽̕͠ͅ ̵̛͈͉͍͖͍͓̻͓̖͚͊̉͊̇̿̽̌̊̍͒̋̕͜͝͝ȁ̸̢̯̪̲͍̲̖̣̙̝̺̠͖̪̃̔̀ḻ̴̥͖̹̮̭͍̎̀͒̋͒̑͂̍͐̐̌̇̒t̵̝͔̼͓̺͇̣̱͖͔̹̗̜͗͐̇͊̌͆̓͐͆̅̔͝͠ē̸̢̨̧̛̳͕̰̼̿͒͑̉͘r̵̢̢̯̬̠̥͍̺̫͓͔̐n̶̹̽̅̃͌̏͋̇̊̈́̓̔̔͗a̴̛̞̎̋̃͒̑̀͐̂͛̎̑̕͘͠t̷̡̡̻͔̗̓̋̉̃̈́̀͊̋̕͘͘i̶̡̖͉̻̲̞͐̿̈͆͑͂̊̈́̕̚v̷̢͕̥̲̼̥̩̰̤̫͖̠͌̄̔̌̋͠͝͝ë̵̢̝͇̞̬̼͓͔́ ̴̢͓̯͖̗̹̪͉͇̩̱̻̫̂̆̉͠ͅs̶̡̫͇̳̻̖̠̲̦͈̆͐̐̽̓͝͝ȩ̴̬̩͙̺̮̩̦̖͍̩̺̼͛̎̏̐ḽ̷̢̮̮̞̳̪̣͇̜̘̺̹̚v̷̜̌͒e̶̛͍̳̙͙̤̬̘̟̺̞̤̥̱̯̔̍̅̈̀̎̊̓͛̒͠͝ͅs̷̨̜̪̥͈͈̫̙̩͙̪̦̊͐͘͜͠ ̴̖͇͇̆̈̃̔̓̏̓̎̓͂͘͝͝î̶̡̨͓͍̫̖͖͉͍̤̣̖̠̯͔͂̾̈́̐͐͝n̵̡̠̼͎̝̦̟̩̫̅̊c̶̡̢̻̯̫̭̪̝̮̱̺͌̅̒l̴̳̘̖̼̥͙̟̻͇̊͘ͅư̶̳̹̗̗̯̫͓̬͒̽̀͑̿̇͐̿̂̊͂͒d̷͇̲̗̭̗̏̎̈̇̋̍͐͆̋̈́̏̿̾͘e̴̢͚̺̰̳̯͔̖̝̗͔̭̒̌̈̓͌͐̀̚͘͜d̴̖̺̹̭̫̱́͂͆͂̊͝.̴̲̭̦͎̳͖̗͙͔̖͕̭͔͂̊̊̒ ̴̯̼̗̮̥̗̒̓̐̊N̶̡͕̹̐͋̌̃͊͛̒̑͌̋̐̄͠Ơ̷̠͖̪̮̦̭̏̆̂͐͛̈́͌̑͝͝ ̴̧̢̻̭̜̻̖̟̪̬͉̭̥̦̜͊̐͆̐̒̒O̶̢͓̝̗̤̮͂̈́̐́̒͋̔̋̌͌̿̂̌̚ͅŅ̴̟͚̮̯̌E̸̫̰͌̓,̴̧̧͇͇̤̪̭̤͎̼̥͊͌̄ͅ ̶͚̇̋̄́̒̕̕Y̵̢̭̯̫̠͇̜̮͒̆͌͆̐͜͠Ǫ̵̣̠̲̬̭̞͆̎͂̽̈́̏͑̑̚̚͝͝U̵͕̲̙̞̒̋̊̎͌͐̕̕͝ ̴̥̳̯̩͕̏͐̾͊͊W̶̜̳̩̻̘̠̜̼̥̝͝ͅI̵̭͍̅͗̎͜L̵̬̪̮͉̠̙̮̟̿L̶̦̯̔̅̓͒̓͝ ̷̨͓̙͎͙̠̫̃͂̐͆̏̌͑̌̒͒̋̍̿̕͝N̷̯͈̞͍̙̘͚͎̝̓̈́̐̂͂̃ͅO̷̻̞̣̗͙̟̓͊̐̿̀̈́T̷͕̳͉̰͉̠̙͐ ̸̧̨͖̹͚͕̬͙̥͗̈́̃́̑̄̇̆͘ͅS̴̢͓̺̯̥͍̥͇̹̫̈́̃̇͜U̴͔̟̖͊͐̑͑̋̂̓̑̈͠R̵̨̢̫̘̗̦̞̟̊͑̓͒̓̃̏̓̀̔͠͠V̷̗̳͉͈̤̗̊̒̒̅̈́̆͘͘I̶͈̩̓͐̓̌̉̈́͐V̸̨̻̺̬̺͖͕̻͇̜̩͔̯̖̀̽̃̍͑͆̆̃̉̈́̈́͜͝E̶̢̝̠̘̖̝͑̆͆͛̆͂͠!̶̡̜̥̳̳͔͉̦̫̻̱̦̻͔͌͊͂͑̇͌̽͆̎̓̓͝ͅ Y̴̡͍̜̬̬͕̓̾̚O̶̗͔̬̹̼̲̓̾̈́̄͊̂̈́̈́͗͆̉̈́͜͝͠͝Ū̴̟̰̯̙̘̬̟̿̆͂̒͗͐͂̑̿̆͘͜͠ ̷̛̯̭͔͊̃͋̒̀̈́͗͛D̴̢̢̡̛̹͖̫̝̬̠̹̤̼̥̆͛͆͋̃͐̂̆̈́͋̉̉͠Ö̷͈̭̙̼͎̖̭͍̖̙͚̖̻́͂͒̈̔͐̐̈́̉̈̓͌͜͝N̸̢̰̦̹͇̜̭̖̮͕͈͌̂̍̚'̷̱̮̣͍͓̱̜̙̤̭̪̥́̇̄̅̓͐̚̕T̴̤̾̈́̚̕͠ͅ ̶̼̫̖̂̃̏́͒̀̇̍S̶̞̤̭͙͔̮̱̜̣̟͍̞͓̜̞̊̿̔T̷̨̩̤̘͕̫̥̘̼͙̰̐͋̆Ą̶̡̢̨̝̺͙̺̭̺͔̠̝̰̣̃̂̍̍̒͂͂̉͊̌̚N̴̛̹̙͎̙̪̲͕͍̅͌͆̔̿͂̔͊D̶͙̍̄̏̿͑̀̆͘ ̷̳̠͍̣̲̥̻̮̍́ͅͅĄ̵̨̲͍̱̰̟̳̥̓͒̐͆̉́̈́̆̃̾̈́͊͝͝ ̵̼͕̣̯̼̝̳̃̊͌͗̈́͊̏͊̔͘̕ͅC̵̪̲̙̞̗͍͍̻̳͓͔̏̂͊̇͑̍̽̃̌̾͝ͅH̴̡̛̘̼̝̙͔̜͔͙̠̋͂̌͒̈́̅͛͆̀̓̓̋͊͜͝ͅḀ̶̧̡̮̣̤͉̤̩͚͉̺̰̌̅̍̐̉̓̅̾̒͜ͅŅ̴̡̡̭͖̬͇̼͎͈͍̜͔̲̽͋͊͑̔̒̂̒̈̌̈́̈́͒͝ͅC̵̨̲̼͕̺̘̦͖̝̺̯̯͚̒͐̂͌̿̾͗E̸̛̜͎͋̑̈́́̅̓͂̇͊̆͝, ̶̨̢̧̧̻̬̠̫͉̮̫̟̞͌̇͒͋́̆́̈́̉̈́N̵̡̜̩̭̋́Ờ̵͛̀͘̕ͅ ̷̠͖̩̞̫̫̽̆͌̕Ȍ̶̼̒͂̒̓̋ͅŇ̶̛̙̱̹̫̱̮͔̞̪͇̱̪̬̑̆͂͆̕Ę̸̡͔͓̞̲͔̘̯͈̗̩͓̀̐͊̇̍͌̈́̀̓̂͛͠ͅ

_don’t do anything… just let it happen. don’t think, don’t react! retreat!_

They’re chatting, pondering on the scientific origin of the ocean’s sudden disappearance. During the buzz and loud murmur, the r̴͎͕̟͇͔͚̜̰̰͔͍̓̌͜ͅa̸͈̖̫͍͓̘͔̿̐̈́͑̉̉͋̂̂̽̂͛̐͘͠p̴̡̡̹̝̞̭̌̌̀͋̕͜ͅi̶͍̫̺̝̼̖̔̕ş̸̢̫͈͉͇̣̩͗̓͋̐͌̈͝t̷̡̢̜͓̬͋̅̎̔͗̔͊̓͘͠ ̶̥̪͕͈͉̞̥̏̐̄͂̽͊͑̅̿͐̿̂̓̑͝ has joined us and suggested going back to my sickroom. After all, only one of us literally “goes” back to my room. E̵͉̩̋̽̽͗͌̃̚͠r̵̢̯͈̤͚͈̈́͐͊̕ȋ̸̝̼͈̗͍̞̾̈́̂̓̏̎̈̾̌̕͝c̷̨̗̘̲̤͖̥͓̗͈̻̬̪̹̿̉͋͗ ̴̡̡̖͇̰̺̠̲̍̈́̈́̇̓͛̋̍͗̈́ has stayed with the gawking nurses and other patients to study the emptiness of the ocean Ų̵̢̨̢̻̰͕̳͍̩͖̠͈̥͊̎̏͌̈́̊̉̆̃̕N̷̲̯̬̥͎̺̰̹̩̓͂̍̎̑̃̽̉͑͝͝Ḑ̸̡̜̯̟̪̤̭̺͕̟̮̳̹̇̓͆̋͑ͅȆ̵̡̨̨̘͈̯̫̣̮͍̩̙͙̟̦̉̌Ř̶̢̢̹̯̹͖̝̞̦̲̞̜̤͕̒̈́ ̵͍͎̬̯͍͎̱̌̃͆͊͋̓̾̎͠ͅŢ̵̦̮͚͔̅Ȟ̸̢̞̳̱̺̜̰̼͇̀͝͠Ĕ̵̥̦̥͇͗̋͊͗͋̇̚ ̵̧̡̳͖̹̼͙̭̾̽̓̽̓̾́͂̂̔̃̇Ṟ̸̦͍̖̦̫̜̤̻͚̰͙̯̺̀̑̂͒͑̇͛Ȩ̴̦̟̬̜̱̘̫͙̰̣̺̒̃͂̍͝Ḑ̷̗̌̑̉̓̌̓̈́͊͠ ̸̜̰͍̲̹̣̤̜̞̼̎͐̏͆̐̑̽̿͛͑̃̚͝B̸͕̳̮̙͎̝͓͍̣͂̎̀̊̃͌̈Ù̶̢͙͍̹̩͍̞͍̃͗͗͗̌͆̎̒̔̽̈̚͜ͅṘ̷̛̝̖̝͍̼͉̭͍̚N̷̘̪̼̻͖͊̉̆̀̀͆̏͘͝I̴̪̲̯̩̓̐̊̌̽̅̀̃́N̸̥̮̥̺̞̖̲̣͑̂̂͊̿̾̂̐̈̑̀G̷͓͉̼̗͔̑̀͆ ̸̧̛̮̻̭̜̺̘̗̲͇͕̮́͌͑̃̒̊̇̏̐̕Š̷͍͉͙̥͍͙̠͈̩̘̙̺͎̓̋͐̅̂̽̉͛̈́͑͜͝K̶̡̡̰͓̍͆̃̌̐̃̈́͒͋̈́̎̓̾̍̚I̴͇̼̖͙̻̗͗͂̀̆̂͗̍͘E̸̡̜̥̖̜̗̤̳̮̙͔͉̳̐̉͒̀̆̆̀̌̾̕̕͘͝S̶̢̨̛̥̜͙͕̥̙̗̹͖͓͔͈̗͊̋̆̒͂͌̓̚͝.

Without prior notice, r̶̘̭̪̣̦̗̥̙͕̲̘̣̾̽̒̀͆͌͊ẽ̸̱̣̀̅̎̀̚v̷̨̧͙̞͔͍̰̮̫͒̅̌̿̅͐͛͛̀͌̈́͌͘e̶̢̨̬͙̺̬̫̺͖̝̣͔̜͉̣̋̋̍͗̋̍́̂̏̈́̀n̴̨̨̡͕̰̲̫̩̼̫̈́̈̔̉̓g̷͙̲̑̽͝e̵͈̭̗̜̼͋͑̾̈́͊̉͌̉̅͐̽̈͘ ̷͕͈̗̻͈̜̦̦̹̎̍̈́̓͠ has followed the ř̴̨̢̭͙͉̻̥̮͙̬͍̼̟͘ä̴̧̱̲͓͚̳̮̳̼́̃͐̑̉̍̕p̴̳͍̍̈ï̷̢̩͖̖̞̩̩̘̖̳̣̜̞̖͌s̵͎̰̚ţ̷͖͕͕̥̣̃́̐̔̔͑̿́̾͛̈́̉͠ ̶̧̛̻̳̭̝̭̻̦̝̼̝̗̆̑̈́̂͗̃͗̍̿̕ͅͅ and me to my sickroom. Since the ř̴̨̢̭͙͉̻̥̮͙̬͍̼̟͘ä̴̧̱̲͓͚̳̮̳̼́̃͐̑̉̍̕p̴̳͍̍̈ï̷̢̩͖̖̞̩̩̘̖̳̣̜̞̖͌s̵͎̰̚ţ̷͖͕͕̥̣̃́̐̔̔͑̿́̾͛̈́̉͠ ̶̧̛̻̳̭̝̭̻̦̝̼̝̗̆̑̈́̂͗̃͗̍̿̕ͅͅ walks with a rather slow pace, it took us forever to finally reach door 23. Which doesn’t mean, r̵̨̘͕̫͕̹̰͉̗̿̏̆͗̌͒̐͌̕͝e̸͈̫͙̺̲̳̻͊̔͗͊̃͆̈̔͗̅͊̐͘v̵̧̨̡̫͖̠̖͍͔̬̳̟̜͋ë̸͖́̆͑͋̽̈́͌̐̌̌͘̕ñ̴̺͇̇̑͋͝g̶̢̖͙̪̯͖͚͖̰̓̽͂͝e̶̢̢͉̜͓̠̻̰͕͑ ̶̡̢̲̻̦̪̖̼̲̰̞͋̈́́̀͂͜ͅ keeps himself out of it. I won’t resist. I’ve been calm all the time and haven’t responded to any of his stories.

Army soldier competent for translation tasks and mediation at their camps. He loved scouting and sitting on a watchtower contemplating the empty wasteland through the lenses of his own truth seeker. Then he’s slapped his thighs and told me about his never ending phantom pain. One night, he dreamt about running with them on an empty street next to the ocean of South Carolina. That might explain his accent. Maybe he’ll say “howdy” once E̵͎̳͕͔̤̺̓̒̑̂̊̌̔̋̃ͅr̷̡̤͙̫͖̥͕̝̤̖̊͜i̶̡̲͉̗͓̤͎͙̼̞̫̹̐͜c̷̢̨̣̺̹̑͋͂̒̎̑́͋͋̄̆͜ͅͅ has returned.

E̵͎̳͕͔̤̺̓̒̑̂̊̌̔̋̃ͅr̷̡̤͙̫͖̥͕̝̤̖̊͜i̶̡̲͉̗͓̤͎͙̼̞̫̹̐͜c̷̢̨̣̺̹̑͋͂̒̎̑́͋͋̄̆͜ͅͅ has finally joined us. Can’t wait for them to switch languages, however, r̶̘̭̪̣̦̗̥̙͕̲̘̣̾̽̒̀͆͌͊ẽ̸̱̣̀̅̎̀̚v̷̨̧͙̞͔͍̰̮̫͒̅̌̿̅͐͛͛̀͌̈́͌͘e̶̢̨̬͙̺̬̫̺͖̝̣͔̜͉̣̋̋̍͗̋̍́̂̏̈́̀n̴̨̨̡͕̰̲̫̩̼̫̈́̈̔̉̓g̷͙̲̑̽͝e̵͈̭̗̜̼͋͑̾̈́͊̉͌̉̅͐̽̈͘ ̷͕͈̗̻͈̜̦̦̹̎̍̈́̓͠ keeps his fluent tongue. “Hah,” r̶̘̭̪̣̦̗̥̙͕̲̘̣̾̽̒̀͆͌͊ẽ̸̱̣̀̅̎̀̚v̷̨̧͙̞͔͍̰̮̫͒̅̌̿̅͐͛͛̀͌̈́͌͘e̶̢̨̬͙̺̬̫̺͖̝̣͔̜͉̣̋̋̍͗̋̍́̂̏̈́̀n̴̨̨̡͕̰̲̫̩̼̫̈́̈̔̉̓g̷͙̲̑̽͝e̵͈̭̗̜̼͋͑̾̈́͊̉͌̉̅͐̽̈͘ ̷͕͈̗̻͈̜̦̦̹̎̍̈́̓͠ fails to say “hi” properly. “Will’ya give back mah field glasses?” he overdoes it. “Huh?” E̵͎̳͕͔̤̺̓̒̑̂̊̌̔̋̃ͅr̷̡̤͙̫͖̥͕̝̤̖̊͜i̶̡̲͉̗͓̤͎͙̼̞̫̹̐͜c̷̢̨̣̺̹̑͋͂̒̎̑́͋͋̄̆͜ͅͅ is understandably confused by this.

“I’m scared… I… I don’t know what to…” he’s lacking a better word.  
“And I thought, I been seeing strange things in my army days.” revenge adds.  
“Can I speak with Ṅ̵̟̔͐͘O̶̭͔͎̗̍͒̐͌̄̓͋̋̈́ ̵̨̛̻̘͔͚̞̭̙̼͎͚̗̳̋̂Ǫ̵̲̲̲͍̳̞̩̿͆͜ͅṄ̴̹̒͋̿̎͊̑̆̓͑̏̕͝Ę̵̩̲͉͙̱̼͓̬͇̦̲̩̭͛̑̇͌̽͝ ̶͕͈̱̤̗̭̀̒͑́̓̈̃͐̎͑̕ alone?” E̵͎̳͕͔̤̺̓̒̑̂̊̌̔̋̃ͅr̷̡̤͙̫͖̥͕̝̤̖̊͜i̶̡̲͉̗͓̤͎͙̼̞̫̹̐͜c̷̢̨̣̺̹̑͋͂̒̎̑́͋͋̄̆͜ͅͅ asks.  


“What in tarnation will you do then?” I hear r̶̘̭̪̣̦̗̥̙͕̲̘̣̾̽̒̀͆͌͊ẽ̸̱̣̀̅̎̀̚v̷̨̧͙̞͔͍̰̮̫͒̅̌̿̅͐͛͛̀͌̈́͌͘e̶̢̨̬͙̺̬̫̺͖̝̣͔̜͉̣̋̋̍͗̋̍́̂̏̈́̀n̴̨̨̡͕̰̲̫̩̼̫̈́̈̔̉̓g̷͙̲̑̽͝e̵͈̭̗̜̼͋͑̾̈́͊̉͌̉̅͐̽̈͘ ̷͕͈̗̻͈̜̦̦̹̎̍̈́̓͠ rolling forward to Ę̵͔̖̗̠̰̮̺͎̓̔̈́̅̓͌̊͛̇r̵̦̂i̸̡̧͖̦̅͑͒́͑̒̈́͠c̵̡̨̳̤͖̤͕̳̙͔̻̄̈́̋̈̈́̄͛̔͘͝’̸̧̤̦̜̘̣͆̈́̔̕͜s̴͉̗̈́ ̸̛̪̻͕̰̳̪̞̪̖͋́̒̀͆̇ direction. He’s outraged about something. “Okay… I’m sorry. Later maybe,” E̵͎̳͕͔̤̺̓̒̑̂̊̌̔̋̃ͅr̷̡̤͙̫͖̥͕̝̤̖̊͜i̶̡̲͉̗͓̤͎͙̼̞̫̹̐͜c̷̢̨̣̺̹̑͋͂̒̎̑́͋͋̄̆͜ͅͅ yields.

“̴̛̣̲̦̯̩̟̖̰̖̥͋̂͂̿̋̚ͅͅ-̸̡̨̨̞̖̻̰͕̖̯̹̫͊͒̚-̵͙̯͙̪̬̝̔̃-̵̖̱̜̤̦͆̓́̓̆̓̀̅̓̔̾̾͠͝-̴̡͈̝͈͉͇̟͗̌̐̅͊̈́̎̈́̏-̴̥̻̖̩̥͕̭͙͎͇̲̗̻͍͛-̶̣̩̃͑͠-̶̫̣͕͂-̴̰̰̙͎̘͍̯̫̠̣̺̜͎̉̅̅̎̏̓̔́̍̕-̷̧̙̣̻̲̿̑̔̄̔͆̃-̶̡̦͙͓̫̯͉̻̖͕̿̽͗͋̎-̵̨̟̜̟̖̟͇̞̖̞̈̇͋͗͗̌͊͛͑͊̕͝͠-̵̛̤͚͈͓͙̯̠͈͇̏͆̂̄̔͐̐̃͛̈͘-̵͖̞̩̦͔̦̩̺̖̿̀-̵̡͔͙̤̱͖̙͌͌͂̊̓̔̅̚-̸̖̣̺̹̆̉̿͊̐̅̚͝-̶̧͖̰̦̜̜̺͚͉̻̮̥̞͚̊̈̃̅̿̽̆̄̈́̈́͊̓̒̚-̷̨̛͙͕̯͈̹̝̤̟̈͗̌͌̓̓̓̀̇̇̏̒͝-̷̙͖̬̺̗̓̅̇͆̃̋̆̈͐̕-̶̡͔͎͔̫͎͔͔̺̮̘̅͂͋͋̐͛̈̆͂̔̓̋̍̆̕͜ͅ-̷̛̛̜͒-̸̡̢̘͖̮̮̞͎͎̗̭̗̖̣͌̌͊̎-̴̝̪͙̝̙͕̗̓̉̔̀̑͜-̶͓̜̬͉͇̰̜̅̉̿̇̃̂̚͝͝-̶͚͉͓̜̫͐̎̓͊͊̿-̷̬̋̋̿̒̊̏̌̏̽͝-̵̯̻̦̺̣͖̺̹̯͚̠́̍̆̾̈́͐̏̓̒̓́͘͝͝-̸̣̻͕͓̙͉̯̦̟͈̈́̅͋̍͐̓̋̎̋̆̈͜͠ͅͅ-̵̢͍̳̼͔̳̲̌̈͂̈́̊̚-̷̞̘͓̲̬͍̔̅̅̈́̿͛̿̇͑̐͗̚͠-̸̧̳̫͚̥̪̞͈͔̟͕͐͐͆̈́͝-̵̡̭̞̬̗̤̮̜̈́̀͌͗͗̈̚͘͠-̶̻̠̰͎͖̻͈̩̑͂̎̈-̸̥̥͍͈͇̤͕̰̳̤͇̙̺̐̑͗̅͛͌͛̐͒͌͘̕͜͠͠-̴̞̫͚̞̻̞̟̬̺̤̥̹̀̓͆͌̔͋̊̾̊̕͘̚-̵̡̧̡͉̭̳͚̣̤̣̰͖͇̼̯̆͝-̸̡̖̖͉̗̪̣͍̟̦̣̻̳̎́̇̈ͅͅ-̵͎̪̐-̶̨̥̗̠̯͙̝̓̑̎̑-̸̳͓͇͑̐͝ͅ-̷̤̖͓̈́̉̄͐ͅ-̵̧͇̪̞͚̻͉̞̬̪̰̱͒̿̔͜͠-̷̢̤̘̍̾̈́͆̐̾-̵̮̳̺̮̅͂͛͗̃̈̓͋̕̕ͅ-̴̨̡͙̠͉̗͙̺͉̻͓̯͍̍̈́̏͛͜ͅ-̴̯̩̙̦̉̇̂̈́-̸̨̬̻͎̙̼̲̟͚̙̝̿͋͗̂͜-̷̮̬̯̜͌̿̊̾̋̆̚-̷̨̛͈̖̮͕̙̖̞͙̯͕͈͚̿̋̏̀͌̊̇̈́̓͘-̷̱̹̲̮͇͚̇̒̒̆̏̓̏̈́̅̓̾̏̉͘ͅ-̸̢̬̠̹̼͉̥̏͌̈̈́͗͂̇̅̑̋̇̓ͅ-̵̧̡̞̦̪͎͒̍̓̅̏̑-̷̠̠̋̿̄̎͠͝-̷̥̔-̸̡̦̦̱̹̰̱̰̮̉̾͗̉̀-̶̛͖̥̪̞̯̮̳̘̉̓̒̌͜͝͝-̷͖͚̥̠̪̤͙̪̊̉̓͐̍͊͝-̵̫̈́̌́̿̆̌̍̋̿̍̕͝͝-̶̤͆̅̄͝-̷̡̨̰͔̇̈́̅́̑̏͐-̸̨̜̲͖̝̪̙̝̍̈́̌͒̃͐͆̄͠͠-̶̜͖̳̻̭̇̉̄͐̈́̆̔̊̍͠-̶̨͉͈̙͍̰̱̟̝̆̽-̶̲̑̑̋͌̓̐̐͘͠-̸̨̗͎̙͚̲̰̘̘̾̓͑-̸̨̧̨̤͔̱̣͖̳̠̥̊̑̏͆͐͂̊̈͘-̸̬̈̆̓͂̈͆̊̋͒̀̇̚̕͝-̷͉̑-̷̫̣̦̭̾̆͒̀͒̋͆͜ͅ-̴̧̭̞̦͚̙̺͉̣͕͔͔̓́̃̑͋̚-̵̛͔͉͈̺͙͓͚̿̊͂̓̍̈̄̿̃̔̒͋͝-̶̙̗͍̅͛͌̊͌͌̈́͆̑̿͌͛̚̕͝-̶̧͚̹̱͙̪̱͛̋̀̈̂̇͝͝-̸̟͌̽̑̓͊̚͝͝͝ͅ-̵̧̻̯̤̤̻̠͋-̸̨̪̥̘͓̪̖̝̥͌̍̎͆-̵̛̰̫͇̺͕̫͖̲̓̔̈́̇̀̀̍̏̈́͘͘͝͝-̴̛̛̰̆̒̃̇̒͌̈́̊̅̇̈-̵̨̡̛̲͍̩͔̞̻͇̝̬̹̯̠͛͛̓͜-̵̡̡̡͙͖̠̲̰̯͕̩̬͊̀̈͜-̵̧̦̭̪̓̍̈́̄̐͒̏͆̄̉̃̚͝ͅ-̸̡͇̰͍͈͚͚̀́̔̈̆̉̈̌̒͊̐̈́͝͠-̸̠͖̖̙̬͖̗͖̲̞̬̙̻͋̃̏̾̓̍̓̿̾͑ͅͅ-̸̢̨̙̝̞̘̮͕͎̣̱̔͌̋̉̌͘-̷̧͎̮̺̙̹̪̰̞͐́̊̏̊̃̑͂̓͂̐͘͠͝ͅ-̸̨̛͙̖̱̝̓̽́̅̒̌̃̌̆̈́̈́̚ͅ-̷̢͎̜̪̬̭̥̙̱̫͍̲̪̤̈-̸̖̱̳͙̤͓͕̋̉͜ͅ-̶̡̛̼͕̥̬̘̝̪͚̥̙̠̫̆̃͑̀͊̐̓̾̆͋̎͜͝͝͠-̶̡̱̪̼͓͉̙͈̱̆̍̀͘͝ͅ-̷̧̢̡̛̘̪̣̠̩̬̲̋̄́̈́̕-̴͎̙̼͕̹̗̱̗̝̃̋̀̓͜ͅ-̵̩͎̯̉̈́-̷͎͈͎͈̼̞͈̱̟̈̓́̌͌̇̓̐͜-̵̳͓̼̙͇̉̽̑̀̔̀̌͌͘͘͘-̷̛̜͓̜͛͗̔̓-̸̡͚͉̙̣̘̜͛̈́̑̏̑͋̈̌̈́̉̅̓́͝-̸̡͖͚̹͖̤̥̖̤͙̟̜̠̋͗̒̃̈́̉͝-̵͙̦̲̾̆͆͐̐̽̉̌̀͘͘-̶̨̛͈̫̲̗͙͙̩̒̽̍̈͛͝-̴̗̌̌̂̚͠͝-̷͎͖̭͖̣̯̼͊̓͂̔͜-̵̧̰̤̫̺̈̐̇̂̈́́̇̀̽̏̕̕͘͝-̴̪͇͖͓̼̟̤̥̹̹͋͗̍̾̽̿̕͜-̷̡̢͔̬͈͓̱̍̿͗̽̂̓͂̾͊͘-̷͕̣͇̙̓͑̅͋͝ͅ-̷̢̘̜̜̫̞̭̬̬̭͓̻̖̿͐̅̇͑̈̎̈̈́̐̂͜͝͝͝-̸̬͉̥̪̦̮̳̭̥̭͊̒͊̈́̄̈̈́̉̒̇͠-̵̨̍͌̍̇͗̉̽̚̚-̷̨̧̢͉̬̹̲̘̦͉̣̌͆̽̊̒-̶̨̘̫̥͙̦͔̭͖̠̪͉̑͆͒͜-̵̨͙̫̩̝̺͔̮͓͕̭̯̦͐̊͝-̴͕̙̹̳͖͔̫͇̺͍̻͙̅̈́̚-̶͔̳̫̻̀̚̕-̵̢͍̹̹̠̲͑̇̂̆̋͆͌͐̚͝ͅ-̴̨̛̳̳͚̬͕͈͖͈̻͈̣͚̍̾̓̓̐̈̽͆͋̏̈́͘͘-̴̛̺̯̖̙̗͖̯̝̝̔̌̌̉̐̄͌̾͐̕͝-̵͉̟͖̙̈́̂̃̀̚-̸̛͕̼͉͎̺͕̠̰̦͇̫̫̄͒͗̿̂͌̊̚̕-̶̛̰͈̣̩̱̖͍̳̝̯̲͎̊̈̉̌̓̍̌̾̆̕͝-̷̮̰̭̤̫̹͚̠̫͎͇͆͑̌͂̕-̸̞̙̰͓͓̤̈́͑͊̚͝-̷̪̬̻̘̰̖̺͕̠̃̈́-̵͓̳̙̺̠͓̞̿͛̈́̋̊-̸͖͍̜͇̫̞̝̈̈́̆̾́̈́͑͆̈́̈́͝-̵̧̨̝̺̰̳̟̥̯̠̓͑̾̾̑͋͆̋̂͠-̵͎̞͖͉̱̙̰͚̙͔̩͕̐̽̔̊-̴̧̧̣̫͓̟̩̰̙̭̼͖̦̺̳̑̾̈͛̈̇͠͝-̴̡̛͇̩͔̥̝͕̺̰̜̏͑̓̌̈́̾̿͠ͅ-̶̧̢̛̝̩̼͓͈̞̟̖̬͊̈́̀̄͛̐͆̍̎̐̊͗̈́̚-̵̢̱̖̩͙̻̖̮̖͕̓͊̈́͆͒͜-̶̢̨̤͉̭̈́̀̀͗͌̽̂̓̌̐̿̌̈-̴̛͓̻̖̯̔̒̓̎̎͗͂̆̌͆-̸̨̛̜̬͙̮̥̰͇̜͍̩͆͊̃̌̇̕͜͜-̶̧̧̧̢̣̘̥̳͎̩̯̬̫͂̏̒̿̅̓-̷̨̯̗̲̹͕͙̺̻̬͕̲̯̝̏̈́̿̎͘͠ͅ-̶̗̠̱͓̘̥͇͍͔̝̪̺͎̈̂͘͜-̵̛̬̠̘̜͌̿̎͑̂̂̈̅̃͂̍̈́̿͗-̷̤̝̦̭͉͈̼̭̣̃̔̏̋͛͠-̸̛̻̻̓͑͆͐͋̔̄̒̎̋͊̂́͠ͅ-̷̠̐͆͗̈̒-̶͕͔̦͉̹̪̪͗̇̂̑̔̈̈́̚͜͝-̴͉̱̠̖̦́̇͂̿ͅ-̵̧̨͇̪̤̰͈͈̹̝͚͍͚̌͜-̵̻͇̬̻͚̥̃̾̊̐̔̔̈́̂̃͘͝ͅ-̴̮͎͙͇̫͉͕͓̂̉͆̑͋̑͆͌͂͜-̷̢̖̳̝̼̭̞̯̥̜́̂̋̈́̈́̈̅̄̚̕-̶͓̫̜̈́̆͌̔̈́̽̅̎̀͛̈́͝-̷̯̼̳̞͓͙̋̍́̈́-̷̢̡̣̘̘̱̙͎̥̌͌͑̃͒̓̈́̄̅̒͒͘̚͝͝-̷̬̺̅͆͠-̸̢̨̫̖̯͓̟͓̳͖̃̌̏͊̂̈͌̈́̇-̵̧̡̢̬̗̣̝̞̬͙̃͆̄̽̂̄̄̄̍͝-̵̩̗̭̟̖͚̓͂̕-̷̹̘̤̤̹̙̱̗̅͋̑̅̾̄͊̽̍͠-̵̡̡̢͖̲̹͉͈̺̺͌̃̽-̷͓̱̲̤̦̘̼͚̤̖̣̮̆̊͠ͅ-̶̢͙͍͍̗̮̣̦̹͚͔͂́̾̽̀̇͌-̵̢̧̫̹͇͔̖̳̮͖̹̠͆̑̎̂̾̒͝ͅ-̴̫̘͖̯̗͙̝̩̒͑͂͂̒͐̊̌̚̚͠-̴̨̪̤͍͕̼̱̪͎̅̌͂̋́͘͝-̶̛̞̼̟̩̤̼̼̺͓̰͙͓̇̐̕ͅ-̷̡̢͍̞͖͇̙͓̺̐̉̊̊͊̈́͌̂̊̈̕͘͜͠͝-̶̛̝̤͉̗͔͙͖̾͂̄̓͌̓̇̊̌͂͝-̶̢̢̡͇̲̖̺̫̝̠-̸̡̻̗͚͓̰͔͚͇̾͂̽̿̓̂͂͛̆̌̕͘̕̚ͅ-̴̧͔̣̮̈́̎̓̂̇̑̉͆̕͝͠-̴̨̠̪̬̈́̇͜͝-̸̢̨͇͍̘̺̫̯̜̘̥͈̝̘͊̈͒͝͝-̶͕͉͒͊̓̀̆̂͂̋̚-̵̙̼̙̦̤̳͉̘̞̭̪͖̅̓̓̑͛͌̍͗͌̽̆͋͜͝-̶̝͍̿̋̽́̉̋̋̿̅̈́̅̇̿͑”̶̻̩̙͈͎̪͔͕̼̍̂͜

E̵͎̳͕͔̤̺̓̒̑̂̊̌̔̋̃ͅr̷̡̤͙̫͖̥͕̝̤̖̊͜i̶̡̲͉̗͓̤͎͙̼̞̫̹̐͜c̷̢̨̣̺̹̑͋͂̒̎̑́͋͋̄̆͜ͅͅ nervously gasps. I’m too indifferent to rewind. I look to the spot from where I’ve heard him speaking. The voice in my head h̷̡̢̞̠̯̲̙͍͖͌̒̀͌̅̾̈́͜͝ȃ̸̢̢̨͔̜͓̭̮͇̩͈̭͇̠̌̍͊ͅs̸͍̙̱̑̐͊̒̑͌̓̾̔̋ͅ ̶̨̝̬͕͉̙̏̆́̎́͘ņ̶̲̝̱̲̺̺̮͚̭̀̾̋́̉̓̓ồ̷̩̹͛̊͂̋̈́̂̓͝͝t̵̢̻̘̲͓̳͓̱̗̩͉̔ ̴̨̦̹̓͆̑͛̎́̿͊̈͗̕a̷̛̝̳̱̝̞̞̽͂̌̏͆͐̍͐͛̓̂̇͝n̵̡͖͙͎̬̬̠̲͚͉̖̦͌̔̓̃̓̐̈́̂͜͝͠ͅd̶̨̡̯͖͓̩̗̆̓̚͝ͅ ̷̬̖͕̩͈̫̘̍̓͂̌̐͘N̸̥̜̳̪̭͇Ẹ̴͚̜̅̓̊͌͊̃̐͛̿̅͘͜͠͝͠V̶̤̙͔̗̭̭̣͐̾͊͋̔͌͑̋̕͝Ḙ̷̡̭̫̬̜̝̳̘̩̟̟̥͈̻͐̾͗͂́̆͋̎̎͝R̵̙̜͍͙̊̒̀́̈́̈́̄̈́̃ ̶̧̲̺̻̺̹͕̈͋͐̄̈́͌̈͜ͅẄ̶̢̧͇̹̲͚̩̠̮̹̭̤̱́͋̾̓̑͌̒̇͂͛̕ͅI̵̲͈̊̆͌̑̈́͐̾͛̈́̊̋́͘͠Ḻ̸̡̨̮̲̳͙͙͖̪͚͍̰͕̳͐͂͝L̷͓̹̈́̀̏͝ ̸̢͓̖̗̣̼̺̱͇̯͖̈͊̓͝ nervously translated their conversation. I hope, it doesn’t hurt as she speaks.

I swallow with the painful cut at my trachea burning at the same time. I rest my head on the pillow. “Just wanted to say thank you, because you went to Ḯ̴̛̟͓̥̺͎͖̻͇͔̮̦̹̼̄̀̑̀̾̓̏͘͠n̵̢̧̯͍͈͎̲̠͕̖̳̯̿͒̂̄̈́̈̐̽͠n̴̘̙̖̄̏̓̈͗̂̎͘ǫ̶̧̧̨̹̦̙̬͔̣͖̘̣̦̅c̸͔̗̳̞̞̆͌͂̉́̎̉̈́̓é̴̗̘̦̜̬͝n̶̢̬̩͕̠͇͉̥̼̎͌̎͊̄̓̆̍̕͝c̵͓̓̒͠e̵̢̛͕̰͕̱̞̳̝̖̩̪̟͙͋̓̓́͛͛͝ ̴̼̣̩̱̲̙̮̻͎̻̕͠ and said sorry,” r̶̘̭̪̣̦̗̥̙͕̲̘̣̾̽̒̀͆͌͊ẽ̸̱̣̀̅̎̀̚v̷̨̧͙̞͔͍̰̮̫͒̅̌̿̅͐͛͛̀͌̈́͌͘e̶̢̨̬͙̺̬̫̺͖̝̣͔̜͉̣̋̋̍͗̋̍́̂̏̈́̀n̴̨̨̡͕̰̲̫̩̼̫̈́̈̔̉̓g̷͙̲̑̽͝e̵͈̭̗̜̼͋͑̾̈́͊̉͌̉̅͐̽̈͘ ̷͕͈̗̻͈̜̦̦̹̎̍̈́̓͠ says.

So, the consequence of me visiting Ḯ̴̛̟͓̥̺͎͖̻͇͔̮̦̹̼̄̀̑̀̾̓̏͘͠n̵̢̧̯͍͈͎̲̠͕̖̳̯̿͒̂̄̈́̈̐̽͠n̴̘̙̖̄̏̓̈͗̂̎͘ǫ̶̧̧̨̹̦̙̬͔̣͖̘̣̦̅c̸͔̗̳̞̞̆͌͂̉́̎̉̈́̓é̴̗̘̦̜̬͝n̶̢̬̩͕̠͇͉̥̼̎͌̎͊̄̓̆̍̕͝c̵͓̓̒͠e̵̢̛͕̰͕̱̞̳̝̖̩̪̟͙͋̓̓́͛͛͝ ̴̼̣̩̱̲̙̮̻͎̻̕͠ was that he mused about it and came back to me to tell me he accepts my apology? Meanwhile the cross has become Ả̴̡̹̹̪̖̺̗̋̈́͊̏̈́S̴̡̲̗͈̪̳͓̓͗͗̇ ̸̢̜͕͈͍͚͚͇̭͉̹͛̑̈̀͛̾̆͊̌̒̒̆͠C̴̨̢̢̫̬̱̎̐̂̍̓̋͜͝͝ͅͅO̷͉͈̜̰͎͙̮͂̊̈́̎̈̄̎͗͛̅̋L̶̡̨̢̛̖̱̬͕͎̩̠̗̙̲͇͎͒́̆̽͛͘D̸̦̃̃͒͘ ̴̛̺̅̎̀̈͐́͝͠͠͠͝͠A̴̡̫̞͉̗͔̮͗̈̎̋͑̓͌̿͠Ş̴̲͈͙̗̘̘̫̳̰̄̑̓̆̎̎̒͛̕͝ͅ ̸̛̺͇̪̹̬̫̙͎̽̊̓͜ͅM̴̙̥̘̒͒̍̊͑͐̊̾͊͘̕Y̶̛̲̥̤̪̙̙̩̗̖͓̹̝͈͍̋̆̂̎́̇͐̿͠͠ͅ ̶̡̦̥͖̲͔͉͈̤͍̝͎͙̩͋́̄͂͌͋H̷̞̀̽̑͛̂̾Ạ̶̤̦̦̃̏̃Ṇ̷͍̈́̾̓̿͋̏͂Ḑ̸̛̣͓̖̣̤̹̍̃̈̈́̑̉̽͒͘͘. I don’t wonder how and why ~~ò̵̧̭̝͉͎͎̭̋̊̆̑̔͆͑͘ų̶̛̣͍̖͈̯̭͍̣̯̼̜̝͇̎̿͘r̴̨̢̨̛̛̩̥͖̺͍̲̪͇̣̱̿̇̑̾̋̆̄̓̎̏̓͘ ̸̝͎͕̈́S̵̝̪̽͐̔͋͝ą̴̛̪̙̬͔̘͕̥̤̤͔̄̋͜ḯ̸͇̮͙̞̻͎̱̟̝̪͈͇͍̣͒͝n̶̦̪̝̜̗̩̰̖͍̟͒͆̔̆̾t̵̪̖̼̯͍̰͍̑̆ ̸̛̳͇̬̟̈́̌͐̍~~ has passed, but sure as hell will I do everything I can to save her.

I think, why is r̶̘̭̪̣̦̗̥̙͕̲̘̣̾̽̒̀͆͌͊ẽ̸̱̣̀̅̎̀̚v̷̨̧͙̞͔͍̰̮̫͒̅̌̿̅͐͛͛̀͌̈́͌͘e̶̢̨̬͙̺̬̫̺͖̝̣͔̜͉̣̋̋̍͗̋̍́̂̏̈́̀n̴̨̨̡͕̰̲̫̩̼̫̈́̈̔̉̓g̷͙̲̑̽͝e̵͈̭̗̜̼͋͑̾̈́͊̉͌̉̅͐̽̈͘ ̷͕͈̗̻͈̜̦̦̹̎̍̈́̓͠ here inside this funhouse. Traumatized by war is my best guess. Ŗ̷̨̢̩̯͎̮͚̦̤͙̼̭͘ȩ̷͈̰͓̖̗̫̠̳̞̺͍̽̊̊̒͗͑̏̄̊̌́v̷̧̨̳̞̠̬̑͗͐͜͝ē̸̜̭̻̱̗̯̪̭͖̘̃͝ǹ̵̻̜̜̬̣̪̤̦̠͉̦̈́͆͐͑̕g̵̗̣̓͗͑̎̉̾͊̔̚e̵͉̟̪͉͚̼̟͈̤̗̼̯̔̑̐̃̌͒̑͑͆͘̚̕̕͠ͅ ̸̣̣̈́͋̊͐̆͋̒̄̈͋͆̃̄͘͝ clears his throat and moves with his wheelchair. Left in this room the E̵͎̳͕͔̤̺̓̒̑̂̊̌̔̋̃ͅr̷̡̤͙̫͖̥͕̝̤̖̊͜i̶̡̲͉̗͓̤͎͙̼̞̫̹̐͜c̷̢̨̣̺̹̑͋͂̒̎̑́͋͋̄̆͜ͅͅ takes a seat.

_it works, when i don’t fight against it, it’s a lot quieter!_

“Wish, I could close the door,” r̶̘̭̪̣̦̗̥̙͕̲̘̣̾̽̒̀͆͌͊ẽ̸̱̣̀̅̎̀̚v̷̨̧͙̞͔͍̰̮̫͒̅̌̿̅͐͛͛̀͌̈́͌͘e̶̢̨̬͙̺̬̫̺͖̝̣͔̜͉̣̋̋̍͗̋̍́̂̏̈́̀n̴̨̨̡͕̰̲̫̩̼̫̈́̈̔̉̓g̷͙̲̑̽͝e̵͈̭̗̜̼͋͑̾̈́͊̉͌̉̅͐̽̈͘ ̷͕͈̗̻͈̜̦̦̹̎̍̈́̓͠ utters.  
“C̴̛͈̰̱̯͇̥̼̫̻͕̆̊͂u̵̧̦̟̖͇̞͉͍̖̩̦͍̣̺̻̒̊̿̏̈͝r̴̩̼͈̙̩̖͊ş̸̢͈͙͔͚̲̦͗͆̈́̄̐̃͂̌̄̀̐̕̚͠e̶̡̢̛͚̮̭͇̦̖̞͊̀̏̈́̾̔͊͑̍͝ ̶̧̣͙̠͔̇͠͝ you, Madsen,” he begins somewhat louder and then he goes on with the entire story,

“David Madsen. Big disgraceful schmuck. All he had to do… we were both on the same team. Didn’t like his guts since the very beginning. Entitled prick thinks he knows everything about war. Outside the boundaries of America, there are wars, nobody believes in. Fighting for this, supporting for that, a̷̰̤͒̌̈́̾̕ŗ̵̓̏̅̑͊̿̇̋̈́̑̈́͘ś̶͕͓̯̯̰͍̿̏͑̔͆͜͝ơ̸̰͉͓͎̗̲̆̋̾̌͌̚͠ń̸̢̢̞͔̥̟̬̞͍̟͎̲͙̉͐͆̄͆̎͒̒̕͠, rape, booby trapped cars. There’s nothing I ain’t seen.

One day, we were deployed in an empty village for rescuing ~~women~~ and ~~children~~. Their ~~husbands~~ have all left for good, which meant, they were either killed or they killed for ~~G̴̨̠̙̜̠̙̝̫̜̃͂̀͛̓̈́̓͌̓͆̔̂̕ŏ̵̻̇͑̓̄͒̅̓̍͛̂̕͝ͅd̸͉̘̲͉̒͐͗̈́͜~~. Madsen was up on that vantage point doing my job. But orders are orders. It was Madsen who made them calls and scouted for hostile actions.

No damn joke, the village was a hive of them. ~~Women~~ , ~~men~~ , ~~children~~ … packin’ heat. They were armed to the teeth. Bloody Madsen saw everything before anyone of our troops. Via radio transmission he told us, where the enemies were. He told us… and them. _Accidentally_ used the open channel. Then he ran off… no more words. Just gone and send us to the s̸̢͎̞̱̜͓̳̯̖̥̳̺͈̋̿̂͒͌͆̓͘͜͠ͅļ̸͕̳͓͔̑͑̎̏̒̔̊͑͊͝ą̷̭̯͔̯̥̥͎̈̎͒̈́̈́́̄͒̀́̑͊̈́ų̸͎̬͓̟͖̼͕̇̋͛̎̿̃̕̚͘͝ͅġ̴̖͕͍̣̹̟̩̂͐͌̆̑̈̇̋ḧ̸̢̨̛͓̜̬͚̪̟̲͖́̓̔̈́͐̄͑̾̑͂̊͝͝ͅt̵̞̖̭̟̠̲̺̦̞̗̮̲̓̃̈́̓̽̔̌̌̉͝ė̸̳̣̫̓͋͑̎͐̏̋͛͒ṟ̷̰̬̮̟̭͇̒͌̈́̃͆͜͠ͅ.

 ~~Riley~~ and ~~Sgt. Bosak~~ died under my watch. They died and a part of me. ~~Kid~~ came running in our direction, and he was crying. ~~Sgt. Bosak~~ held the ~~kid~~ at gunpoint… didn’t shoot because it was a ~~kid~~. I tried to haul him away from the little ~~boy~~ , but…”

R̷̙̜̮̼̺͒͗̿̅̄̉͆̄͆͘͜͝͠͝͠e̴͓̝̱̯͑̓̈́͊͗̂̇́͛͝v̷̡̛̱͚̠͓̣̲̥̝̳̪͔̜͍̔̆̑̍̎̒̀̃̉̐̋ͅẻ̵̝̭̫͍̇̀̐̄̒̒̓̽̈́̇̈͘͝n̶̢̡̩̝̻̞̥͇͓̯̺͔͉͈͐̋̄̿̏̿̑͝ͅģ̷̡͕̞͕̖̳̤̪̭̻͈̹̌̈̓̈́̋̌́̐̌̔͆̃͠ḙ̴̝̤̲̘͖̖͖͊̎̒̋̇̎̌̚̚͝’̸̰͓̯̺͇̗̎͌͒̈̈̽s̵̡̠̹̙͍̬͋̏͊͐̉ ̶̢̨̨̪̰̺̭̮̬͈̰͆͒̀̑̃̓̇͘͝͠ͅ eyes shut. He hangs his head. He draws another breath,

“Four days had passed. I been buried for four days after the explosion. Rubble and dirt broke my spine. But I survived. Not a scratch… but the lower half has gone dead. A beam of light shone on my right palm. To my left, I saw ~~Bosak’s~~ dead body. His binoculars within reach and a rescue helicopter in the air. Praise the lord… my far cry had been heard. They saved me. I cried like a baby as they were carrying me back to the camp. They stitched a couple of small cuts and I could’ve sworn I still felt my legs.

Back at the medical tent on camp, I saw Madsen. Didn’t take a scratch… but a very deep sorrow on his mind. He didn’t stop lookin’round like a maniac, as we were patched up at the medical tent. I screamed, ‘Madsen, g̸̠͉͚̔̑͗͗͂͛̋̀̕o̸̥̘̱̲͋̋͒̏̍̓̌́͗͛͘͝ ̷͗͜t̸̗̻̮̳̏̒̐͜͝’̸̞̇h̷̨̢̨̨̟̗̝̪̣͖͙̳̭͆̆͂̓̀̀͆̕͜ͅę̶̢̣̖̼̰̻̭͖͈̥̣̾̈́̒̆͜ḷ̵̢̢͉̹̭̻̼̒͆̔͑̽̿̒͆̽̿̄̎l̷̙͐̒́̿͌̌̚ ̵̮͈͎̪̱̞̫̬̯̊̆̿̅͛́̇͛̐̆̏̔̏ą̶̢̡̮͚̖̰̲̻̯̱̣̗̙̦̍̃̓̎̽̉͝n̴̹̰̻͇͙̥͉̈͆̈́̌͆̓̕̕͘͘͝ͅd̸̜͚͚̭̜͔̙͚̩̟͌̈́̄̑̅̍ͅ ̵̛̛̻͙̻͕͚̹͈͙͐̆́͒̋̈́̑e̸̻̠̥̠̜͉̥͐̈́͒͐̈́̐͗̈̈́̃̾̿͜͜v̶̢͓͓̥̣̪̞̥̦̣̗̣̳̝̖͋͊ė̷͉̳̬͖͉͕͈̺͙͗̍̈͋͐̋̽̋͂͆̅̎ͅr̶͉͆͌̎̍̚y̴͇̦̝͉͊̄̑͠ ̶͔̱̩͊̿̈͊͆̇͛͑̈́̒ơ̴̡͙̖͙̰͎̫̲͖̥̭̪̜̫͋̎̑̊̈̑̽̾͗͘n̶̗̬͕̔͑̀̈͝e̸̝̙͍͇̳̝̦͖̥͂̀̓̐ ̵̧̳͖̫̑ỷ̷̦̪̞̺̜̟̺̖͕͈̩͒̄̐͆͐̔́o̸̯͕͙̞̯͇̠̤͎͍̞͂͆̓̓̋͑̆͐͜͝ų̶̰͎̻͓͚̹̻̅̌̋ ̴̧̝͇͖͕͎̝̱̰͙̫͓̫͉̈́͛̔̕̕͜l̵̢͕̭̻̙̜͎͖͈͖͕̲̹̖͉̿́̂̋͑̈́̈́̏̓o̶̜͎̯͙̜̖͌͝v̶̨̛͈̻̟̞̗͈̆̋̍̈́̈́̊͗͐́̅̊ḛ̴̡̝̩̠̗͔̣̬̦̮͆͒̃͜͝͝!̶̧̨̲̙̗̪̜̖͖͙̪͍̹͗͐̈́͛̀̋͛͑̏̈́̊̂̕̚͝’̴̥͉͎̙͓̫͚͙̱̗̯͔̩͍̘̐̉̊̍̈̾̃̓̒̕ ̴̡̛̱͔̓̂͛́̊̽̓ Then, he ran off, did his duty and left the camp the mornin’ after. ~~G̵̞̎̽̆̆͆̔o̶̢̙̥̳̖̪̳̤͚̍͌̏͌̃̈́̐́̒̉̇͌̈́̈͜͝d̵̡̰̭̮̜̪̺̠̗̜̪̰̼̄̃̇̅͗̋̓̋̽̂͘ͅ~~ … this is my fault now, is it?” he ends with a lot of sarcasm.

“I didn’t understood everything,” E̸̻͖̳͉͍̰̪̖̮͎͖̻̖̒ͅŗ̷̧̧͖̪͍̩̱̬̱̬̦̥̏̌͐̍̐̎̄̈́̏̔̋̕͝ͅî̷̻̜͕̯̲̦͈̗̦̪̬ͅc̴̡̭͎̠̪͍͖̩̞̟͗̃̃̇ͅ ̶̫̣̠̖͓̠͉͌ admits.  
“Ḫ̴̡͙͍̱̞͚͕̞̠͔͎̻̜̏̓͂̈̏̃͆̍͆̃͊̓͛͠e̷̡̢̧̻͔͉͔̖̙͍͕̣̻͂͗͋͘͜͠l̷̨̻̃̌̏ḷ̴̛̰̯̺̬͈̭̫̩̰̙̉̈́̋̅͋̅̍͒̚͝, I don’t give a rat’s ass about you! You are just as fake like all the others.” r̴̳̟͙͆̌͛̃̈͜ȅ̸̢͙̞̖͉̺̮͖̰̲̜̓͛̇͘͘͜͝v̵̢͔̹̫̭̭̠̰̹͎͈͋̂̔͜͝ͅȩ̴̜̑̈́̅͆̊̉̿̽̋͂̐͌͝ņ̸̢̻͓͔̯̖̻̯̤̲̱͚͈͎̉͌̒͛̐̈͒͐͘g̷̛̗̼̲͛̑̋̈́̈̔̉͗̊̕̚ȩ̷̣̻̮͇̋̈́̾́̈́̄͋̉́̚͝ ̴̨͖͈̙̹͙͙̩͔̜͓͛̐̿͜ screams at him. His wheelchair creaks and rolls forward a few inches.

“Everything fine here?” the ŗ̷̢̪͖̠̤͕͙̜̹͈̪̮̟̣̄̈̈͝ą̸̛͇̮̱̮̥̼̥͓̱̖͕̙̃̂̔͋̊ͅp̵͙̙̦͉͓͊̒͒̅į̸̛̟̫͇͇̟̳̀̑̓̾̍́̈́͋̓̋͘ș̴̡͕̝͔̝͖̙̟̼̊͆̊̈̿͆͆̾̏t̷̟̅̍̆́̀̓̾̎̎̈́̃ ̴̨̱͓̻̹̗̙̿̐̄̌͛̂̔̂͘͝ pokes his head into my room.  
“All great,” r̸̡̲̙͉̞̻̈́̍̂́͗̓͋͜e̷͍̥̤̝̹̐͐̋͠v̶̟͓̄̾̉̑̍̌̏̈́̂͒̈́̂̀̈͠e̴̤̰̲͈̘͎̒̈́̈́ͅn̷̢͕͕͓͎̼̰̼̺̥̯̩͐͗͂̑̋̕̕͜͝͠ͅg̵̛̠̖̤̬̥͍̩̺̯̹̹̦͌̏̊͑̽̚̚͝͠ẻ̸̢͔͓͖͖̪̠͍̟̺̟͚̠ ̵͕̯̜̔̿̎ grits his teeth.  
“Come on, revenge, leave them both a little alone time,” the rapist steps in.  
“I ain’t listen to you, too! You are the biggest fake here!” r̸̡̲̙͉̞̻̈́̍̂́͗̓͋͜e̷͍̥̤̝̹̐͐̋͠v̶̟͓̄̾̉̑̍̌̏̈́̂͒̈́̂̀̈͠e̴̤̰̲͈̘͎̒̈́̈́ͅn̷̢͕͕͓͎̼̰̼̺̥̯̩͐͗͂̑̋̕̕͜͝͠ͅg̵̛̠̖̤̬̥͍̩̺̯̹̹̦͌̏̊͑̽̚̚͝͠ẻ̸̢͔͓͖͖̪̠͍̟̺̟͚̠ ̵͕̯̜̔̿̎ turns around and screams at the ŗ̷̢̪͖̠̤͕͙̜̹͈̪̮̟̣̄̈̈͝ą̸̛͇̮̱̮̥̼̥͓̱̖͕̙̃̂̔͋̊ͅp̵͙̙̦͉͓͊̒͒̅į̸̛̟̫͇͇̟̳̀̑̓̾̍́̈́͋̓̋͘ș̴̡͕̝͔̝͖̙̟̼̊͆̊̈̿͆͆̾̏t̷̟̅̍̆́̀̓̾̎̎̈́̃ ̴̨̱͓̻̹̗̙̿̐̄̌͛̂̔̂͘͝.

I can clearly hear E̸̻͖̳͉͍̰̪̖̮͎͖̻̖̒ͅŗ̷̧̧͖̪͍̩̱̬̱̬̦̥̏̌͐̍̐̎̄̈́̏̔̋̕͝ͅî̷̻̜͕̯̲̦͈̗̦̪̬ͅc̴̡̭͎̠̪͍͖̩̞̟͗̃̃̇ͅ ̶̫̣̠̖͓̠͉͌ shivering and shaking like a puppy corned in a dark basement. He’s not far away from me. The ŗ̷̢̪͖̠̤͕͙̜̹͈̪̮̟̣̄̈̈͝ą̸̛͇̮̱̮̥̼̥͓̱̖͕̙̃̂̔͋̊ͅp̵͙̙̦͉͓͊̒͒̅į̸̛̟̫͇͇̟̳̀̑̓̾̍́̈́͋̓̋͘ș̴̡͕̝͔̝͖̙̟̼̊͆̊̈̿͆͆̾̏t̷̟̅̍̆́̀̓̾̎̎̈́̃ ̴̨̱͓̻̹̗̙̿̐̄̌͛̂̔̂͘͝ leaves the room but r̸̡̲̙͉̞̻̈́̍̂́͗̓͋͜e̷͍̥̤̝̹̐͐̋͠v̶̟͓̄̾̉̑̍̌̏̈́̂͒̈́̂̀̈͠e̴̤̰̲͈̘͎̒̈́̈́ͅn̷̢͕͕͓͎̼̰̼̺̥̯̩͐͗͂̑̋̕̕͜͝͠ͅg̵̛̠̖̤̬̥͍̩̺̯̹̹̦͌̏̊͑̽̚̚͝͠ẻ̸̢͔͓͖͖̪̠͍̟̺̟͚̠ ̵͕̯̜̔̿̎ stays.

“I want to finish my story and then… I’ll leave you W̴̢̩̲͇̜͇͓̮͎̬̫̤̒̈́͋͘͝͝ͅA̸̡͉̗̣̬͍̤͇͇̋L̶̬̤̯̬͇̦̤̋̏̆̅͋̅̈́̕L̷̪̭͊͒̒̈́͜Ơ̸̩̰̪̆̏W̴̦̙̮̍Í̸̜̖̫̹̯̠͌͊̀̂̆̕͘̚̕͠N̶͓͇̰̬͒͋̓̓͊̂͒̈̔̄͊̚ͅĢ̶̨̧͚̞̝̱͚͖̗̯͔̄̓̾̾̿̃̒̕ ̸̪̟̌̈I̵̢̪̼̼͔͎̼̩͎̱̥͆͛N̸̢̧̜͔̼̹͕̹̞͇͆̉̾͑͐͗͗̐̍͒̃͘ͅ ̸̠͚̼̞̺̈́͛͘͘Y̶̤̥̼̗̮̱̱̥̔̈́͗͂̏̈́͑͊̀̈̚̚͝Ö̷̧̦̳͎̳̞͉̻͎̬̪͚́̆̇̃͋̈́̈̅̿̑̕̚̚͜͝ͅͅŬ̵̻̞͎̮̳̣͍̩͚͎̜̯͇͈̈́̃͐͠͝R̶̬̳̩̺̪̝͓͖͓͍͋̏̒̿̌̽̆͒̂͊ ̷̰͒̊͛̓͑̐̅̌́͐͠͝H̸̡̛̹̫̦̱͔̥̹̝͖̒͐̉̏̉͌͂̈͛͘͝͠E̶̡̲̬̱̖̼̔͒̏͌̍̓̽̄̾L̷̛̪͔͎̰̗̄̐̌̊̏̓̄̓̈́̓͗͘͝Ļ̵̨̢͕̼͇̣͈̼̥͓͂͛͊̌͋̈,̷̡̛̛͇͈̞̩̝̯̮̻̰̟͕͑͐͂͊”̷͎̠͓̜̟̳͖̰̇̌͜ ̴̹̭̲̖̘͚̘̜͑r̵͚̹̝͕̯̠̟̠͒͐͑͋͆͑͝e̷̥̼͚͖̬͉̯͘v̶̢̡̰̹͇̩̻̖̙͕̖͕͖̣̞͆̄̓̐̅͌͌̍͑̒͗̏̆̔͝e̴̛͉̍͌͑͑̓̀͒̿̑̈́͠͝n̴̛̛̰̲̗̣̰̱̱̥̜̞̿̊͌̄́̓͂̋̏͜͜͝ģ̸̻̮̊̅̔ȩ̴̦͉̣̦̖͕̠͚͜͝ ̵̧̝̹͒͒̈̐̓̋̓̇̄͊͘͝͝ exhales still enraged

“After war, I remained crippled. I wish them people’d showed us more respect. My wife was laid off and couldn’t pay the bills for any of my indispensable treatments. Oh N̵̛͔͈͕̽̉̏̃͛̍͘Ơ̵̯̹̬̜̮̖̗̻̬̮͕̅͋̉̽̆͂͒͘͝͝ͅͅͅ ̸̰̻̥̲͓̥͖̤͖̙̤̲͙̦͓͑͂͗̓͝Ó̷̭̣̰͉̳̫̉̚N̶̨͉͎̫̩̟̙͠Ȇ̵͉̣̩̹̮̾̍̓͗̚, I tell’ya, 250 grants in a year ain’t feasible. We both went our separate ways. I managed my way into this…,” he pauses and his wheelchair creaks.

“My wife fetched up at some diner and a wholesome lady fed her like a stray puppy - ~~G̴͓͇̼̭̱̣̳̯̪̰͕̃̋͗̆͛̾̑̽̃̃̈̕̕͜͠ỏ̸̢̡͚̩̫̦̗͇̰̦̤̯͎͇ď̷̢͔̱̥̣͍̯̹̠͔̫̳̖͛̄́̃̇̆̉̅́͌̇͝ ̵͎̎~~ bless her. Then, the name Madsen came up. He yelled at her, ‘Get a job, ye bum!’ Pretty tongue-in-cheek, if ye asked me. I said, ‘I gonna teach’m a lesson.’ But instead, I chose to give’m a call, and ask him about how he’s holdin’ up. His wife picked up, tears shot up my eyes, ‘cause I knew she been feedin’ my spouse next to a dump,” he sighs.

“I wanted him to call me back. He never did, because at the same day ~~Y̷̝͍͈̖̦͔͔̘̓͆͂͊͜͝Ȯ̴̧̡̼̙̩̩̜̃̌̍͂̎̄̂̿̐̍̊͝U̷͕͖̰̜̼̳͙̣͊̓͛̓͂͒̂͂̋͋͌͝Ṝ̵̢ ̴̡̱̲͖̱̖̣̈́̈̓̊͜R̷̖̫͚͈͍̗͚̠̟̱̃̍̃̉̊̌E̷̛̛̗͈̟͍̝̲͖̫̺͛̉̃̂̏͛͠͝D̸̦̔͛̓̄̌̉͘͠-̸̩̜͓̞̃̿̚͠͝H̵̡̺̩̠̹̳̖́Â̸̢̢̟̝̟͉͕͈̟̜̎̂̌̾͆̀͊̈́̽̕̚I̴͇̟̭̦͉͑̉͑̍́̀̄̃͠͝Ṟ̸̡̛̼̥̖̇͗̂̀̔̐͗̀̃̂̔͋̚E̵̡͖̟̺̲̽̇͗͆̅̽D̷͕̫̕ ̷̹̭̭͔̮͕͙͉̪̠̞̘̄̾̄̉̊̃͘͝Ṣ̸̡̭̖̖̮͕̅͜ͅĻ̸͚̹̺̮̹̳͚̞̰̗̠̝͑̿͆̆̎̉͗̽͘͘ͅȀ̸̢̢̦̼͕̠̩̬̖̙̟̫̯͔̰̋͘V̷͇̩͚̱̩̪̖̥̉̑̏̈͐̌͗̅̃̏̀́͘E̵̢͍͙̜̬̻͚̰̲̋̂̉̑̂̅̽̎͗͘͝͝ͅ ̴̢̼̠̟̩̩͙̜̗̖̜͈̞̼̇̚͝~~ drank herself dead. And who’da thunk it, he ran away from his problems again?”

There’s silence. I can hear the fabric of our clothing moving, the high-pitched whistle out of our noses as we breathe. I’m getting tired.

“This man got a heart. He saved your life, N̴͍̫̣̱̱̬̥̓̈̎̇͌͒̂̿͒͘Ơ̷̡̯̤̫̠̦̝̱̞̞̟̖̣̆̾̋́͑̄̀͘͜ ̸̢̛͈̪͙̙̱͇͉͔̭̯̆̔́̓͝O̶̖̙̘̬̹̼̿͠N̷̡̝̥̘͚̻̘͖͎̗͙͎̹̎̅̆͐̽̂͝Ę̴̭͎̣̑͑̓̏͐̌̚̕. Madsen ain’t a bad guy, but losing ~~Y̶̢̥̗̮̦̙̝̗̭̗̼̗̤͇̊͂̈́͘Ő̸͉͖͚̬̓̃̓͋ͅU̸̺̱͎̤̭̼̤̱̭̤̯̿̆̆̽̃͆̌̕͝ͅR̴̜͚̲̪͛ ̷̧̦̈́͐̄̄̆͊̃̎͑͠͝C̵̨̀͛̃͋̿͒̄̊̐̈́̇̈́͝Ų̷̛̟͙͎̠͕͇̥̝͖̮̳̓͠Ŗ̴̖̪̟̙̭̔̒͋͌̿̐̊͑͐͘̚͝͠Ṡ̸͎̯͔̪̩̎̎̆͘͠͝Ę̷̢̨̡̜̦͕̙̹̄̓̊͐̾̇͐D̷̡̛̯̺͐́̐͑̔̒̓͑̓̏͜͝͝ͅ ̴͔̳̙̥̩͉͉̱͙̉́͜S̷̭̭̍̓̄̒̑̓̐͌͊͊͠͝͝L̸̡̢̮̤̭̮̬̪̱̘̯̒̃̄̈́͆͝ͅĄ̶̞̾̄̿̀͑̌͋̾͝V̸͍̦̲̺̙͓̙̜̐̔̅̈̾͛̊͒̽͛̈̐͜E̴͕͔̼̞͓͖̎͂̕ͅ ̷̗͇̺͉̪̋͒̑̈́͑͋̀̀͊̿̏͊̈́͝~~ killed him from the inside.

_argh, it hurts, i can’t take it!_

T̸͎͂̀͐̈́͌̇̎́͝͝ḫ̷̬́̍̀̄̎̆̂e̶̡͉͎̬̱͑̈̒͘͠ ̵̧͙̰̘̙͍̘͔̞̮̯̥̮͆͛̒̂̏̃̉̽͑̌̊̎̋̐̚ͅͅḑ̶̛̠͍͉̝̣̳̄͊̈́͘͝͝͝ͅȧ̶͕͕̎̇͘m̸̙̺͖͎͕͓̱̻̭͖̱̏̔̄͐̐̚a̸̧͚̭̬̲̜͙̲̯͓̞̾͑̋͊̉̔͂̃͘͘ĝ̸̞̹̳̮̰͜ȇ̴̲̋͘ ̷̡̡̛̟̗͎͔̱̯͍̲̟͐̀́̾͒ͅh̶̛̟̤̲̹̻̝̔͊̎̑̄̋̐̎̄͊͝a̶̡̨̗̝̗͎̰͔̮̘̙̩͈̠͂͊͌̀̿̆͊͒̏͝d̶̬̞̟̥̖̲̩̲͒̍̀̓͐̔̂͛̆̎̚͠ͅ ̵̡̛̟̬̘͉͚͇͇̘̟̗̝̹̞̈́̒̓̈͂̎̓͗̽̊̎̒͋̚b̴̨̨̥̟̻̤̣̘̝͉̬́̈͋̉̔̑̎͒͘ë̵̡̧̛̪͕̼̈͌̽̎̏̀̓̆͆͋͊̚͘ȩ̸̡̡̹̟̻̩̣͇̙̞͇̘̺̜͆͛͗͐̈̉̊̓̓̚͘͝n̴̡͓͕̤̘̐͑̓̈́̅̒͆̊̐͠͠ ̴͖͎̹̊̂̒̀̓́͠ȑ̷̛̜͙̥̹̩͈͈̍͐ȩ̸̮̖̩̗͉̘̙͗͑̐̐̄̏͝ͅv̵̛͙̼͓̾̈́͆̔͐̽͌̃͠ȩ̸͕̖͙̓́̐̄̏́̅̈̎̾̒̚ͅŗ̵̡̡̛̝̩̥̝̭̮̖̏̈́͘s̶͖̐͌͌͠͝͝ȩ̷̧̙͖̗̬̥͕͍͓̻̘̠̄̈́͋̈̓̆̊̈́̂͐̚̕͘͜͝͝d̵̖͕̤͕̓̿̊̆̊̈́̃̅̈̕̕͝,̶͍̄̈́̔͗ ̷̨̧̨̛͉̣̣̪̘̳̻̫̼̼̬͛̆̈́̆̈́͂̏͊͛̈́̋t̴̪̫̞̝̤͓͔̔̈̃͆̈́ḩ̷̨̦͕͓̙̯̪̔̓̄́̓͐̎͌̽͐͛̈́͝e̷̱̙̱̠͎͛̉̌̃̍͝ ̴͓͙̐̈́͂̇͊͘͝ḓ̷̛͔̫̤̯̜̯̫̤̞͙̖́̌̄́̑̄͊̓̊̚͜͠ą̶̤͚̻̭̦͇͕̯̭̭͙̅̀̉̈́͑̉͠ͅm̷̨̧̢̜̮̯̤̳̱͉͔̣̗̜̄̇̓͛͋̂̅̾̓ǎ̸̛̛̭͙̺̪͆͛̂͝g̸̝̪̙̮͓̖̖̹͈̣̝̘͋ę̸̥̞͍̊̂̄̈́̔̈́͘̚͝ ̵̡̡̙̟̪͎̗̲͍͍̙̄̈́̄̅̓̒h̶̥͙̘̻̤̆̏̃̕ą̵̠̪̚d̶͎̦̻̘̜̩̊̑̽̃̿̎͂̈́̒̔̔̉͘̚͘ ̷̛͔̦͚̯̙̤̼̩͎͓̮͇͎̿̋̐͑̑͋̅̐̈́͘͝͠ň̸̫̺͙̪͚̟͉̎̏̉́̋͛́̀̍̈́ͅé̴̡̡̲͖̬̳͉̼̲̦̪͇̐̈́͜v̷̡͕̜̭̠͈͇̱̏̐̈͛̔ȩ̵̙͔̰̰̤̖͑̇͋̊̾̎͘̚r̴̙͓̳̙̜̠̰͍̥̼̲̪̈́͒̂̏̂̉̇̎͆͑͛͂̈́͜͝ ̶͓̗̮̖͐̆̓̓͐̏̕͝ͅb̸͍̺̮̥̿̆̀̔͌̌̽̌̄͝ē̶̢̡̛̩̻̜͚̪̤̻͙͇̔̂̉͌̂̒͒̉̂̄̽̕̕͜ę̵̛̗͍̮͂̈́̉ͅn̷͈̫͔̫̹̠͇̰̳͖̯̱̟͌̽̂̄̕͜ͅ ̸̬͖͚͎̦̪͇̺̈́̈̌̿̒͝͝ͅr̷̢̹̭̮̱̬̮̹͕̝̲̯͙̓̎́ͅe̷̫̱̒͊̏̿͛͝͝v̴̳̟̲̠̠͓̍͆̉̐̆̋̕ͅe̷̻͈̬͎͉̮̫̠̫͈̭͕͌́̉̃͜r̵̼̦̺͚̙̻̟̼͙̝̰̞̈́̅͌̈́̊̔̀̒͊s̸̗̱͇̩̞͇̤̩͕̟̎̓͆̏̈́̿̅͋̑͆͜ë̴͚́d̵̡̛̹̭̥̜̙͕͍͓͙̮͔̄̉̇̑͑̉̉͐̎̊͒̍͋.̵̈́̅̃̒̊͑͋͛̄͆͜͠ ̷̤̱̫̩̟̺̥͓̝̭̳̄̒͜Ĩ̵̡̢͔̠̰̝̝̘̤̩̐ͅ ̴̛̱̣̜̳͛̈͋̉̀̄̈́͑͆͘ͅl̴̡̢̤̮̬̣͈̙̗͒̒̆̀́̓̆̎̈́̑̐̉͂̓o̷̘͔̲̖̻͖͊̓ͅͅs̴̨̡̪͖̠͔̠̻͋̇̊̊̓̍̓̕ͅt̸̨̯͓̭̳̘̼̻̝̪̘̟̋̓̊͊͒̉̓͊͒͝ ̷̛̳̝͈͔̞̺͔́̈͑̅͜͜b̴̢̟͈͖̀̔͆̒͆̈́̈́̈͘͜ơ̵͍͔̤̜̆̍͋̆̇́̏̃̉̊͛̏͝t̶̞͙̫̗͔̠̩̞͈͉̓͊͘h̷͈̦̝̘̣̟̙̥̩͓̘͎̻͌́ ̸̫̏͆̔̚͝m̴̩̈̐̓͑̅̾̌̏̃̕͠y̸̨̦̗̘̺̬̫͓̪̜̲͓͌͌ ̸̜͓̙͍͈̮̯͓͔͈͔̹͈̫͆͑̏̌̏͝͝l̴̛̞̦̺͍̬̻͚̲͈͙̙̟̉̿̂́̀́̈̽̃̕̕ͅe̸̗̊͂̽͌͒͐͑́͐̀ḡ̸̦̗̘͚̬̫̜͇̖͉̠̳̾̒s̷̩͕͍̥̤̭͆̇̒̈̓͗̔̐̋̂̚͝,̷̡̡͖̖͕̻̬̜̱̓̐ͅ ̶̨̛̞̬̩͓̪̟͐͗̆̆̄͗͋̎͒̎̌͌̕͜ą̶̡̳̣͎̝͓̩̜̬̰̲̤̜̭̔̅̾̇͠n̷̳̟̯̘͌̇͊̿d̵̨̨̛̬͕̓̑͌̔̌̄̏͘͜ ̷̧̢̣̰̰͕̘̟̪̹̮̹̱̫͋̏̽̈́̀́̈́̽ͅh̵̢̛̻̥̗̜̙̬͖̤͔̙̲̭̩̣̒e̸̛̦̠̹̞͍̹̐̆͆̆̆̒̿̀̎́ ̸̨̭̹̼͎̝̋̔̂̏̔̊̽̐̎̃̉͘̚͠ͅͅļ̵̡̧̩͚̺̲̫̭̤͎̐͆͂́͋͆̇͝ͅo̶̮͓̰̲͌̏̈́͑͂͆̀͝͝s̵̗̗̯̰͛t̵̨̨͕̞̫̭̰͖̺̐̅͋͊̓̓̿͐̔͠͝ ̴̠̝͓̩̯̪̥̗̲̈̇͌̎͒̂̓͌̅̿̓̽̾͘͜Y̷̡̝͉͎͔̞̰͎͖̗͚̗̑́͊͜Ö̵̞͎͉͍͉̞́̏͗̋͛̌̈́̒͊́̐̈́͑Ủ̵̧̡̬͔̩͊̐̽̓̍̑̄̈̚͠͝R̴̖͚̼̥̥̜͛̑͛͆͐̂̊̈̔̇̒͘͝ ̶̨̘͉͖͉̯̺̭̓͛S̵̛̭̜̘͇̠̮̦͇̀̈̈̔̋̉̓͑̽̕͜͜͝L̵͍̘̦̲̭̞̯̒̄̍̀̈͝A̴̡̰̥͑̿V̵̜͇͒Ě̴̢̡̪̠̹͔̻͗́͆̌͌̿̚͠ ̵̰͉͍̬͓̯̳̙͕̗͆̓͒̉͂̈́̽̚̕ͅh̶̢̩͍̯̠̲͍͚̼̮̞̰̝̤̓̓̉͘͜e̶̛̹̓̽̈́͐̈́̈͊̍͊͘͠ ̴̛̪͉̙͇̠͙̼̪̥̞͉̹͈̽̋̐̃́̍̑̇͗̄͋͜͠c̸̡̢̭̺̘̝̞̪͈̩͎̈͜o̴̲̼̺̹͎͌͐͂̎̐̏̾͗̑̎̾̕̚͠ụ̸͎̋̌̎̂̒ͅl̷̳̥̪̩̖͙̣̟̞̪̝͂̐̅̒̇̇̌͠͝ͅď̴̛̠̰̖̝͕̎̆̿̈́̊̋͌͆̄͜͝ṅ̸̹͐̾̋̂͒̇͑̑̃̓’̸̲̰̲̬̭͙̹͈͈͇͚̈̉͂̍͠͝͝ť̴̛͚̰̬͐̆̏̉̕͘̕ ̸̛͖͌̽̌G̸̡͕͐ͅȨ̸̛͇̪̯̠̣̭̖̉̿̿͊̋̽̒͌͌̈́̐̈́̕ͅT̸̛͕̼͈̜̦͍̼͖̦͔̞̘̻͛̿̋ ̴̧̮̯͍͖̦͕͕͈̣̭͔͕̮̚ͅÃ̶͔̯͉̯̞̹̤͚̠͚͙̒̓̽̈́̈́̅̃̈̄̕͝W̵̯͋͌A̶̢̛͕̜̒̓͋̏͐͆̽͜Ÿ̷͈̽̅̆͒̅̽̕͝ ̵͓͍̂̂͑͒̈́̆̌̿̋̓F̶̟͔̗̬̃̐̎̇̄R̸͙̤̰̅̀͒̌͒̂̓̆̚͝͝Ǒ̷̮̫̠̙̍͆̑̌̋̏͒̿̂̚̕̚M̴̡̢̧̖͈̣͔̹͔͚̝̫͇̟͕̃̋̾̇̕ ̶͖̫͓̯̮͍̂͜Y̶̢̼͖͇̱̰͗̿̎͂͆̋̿̇̚͜͜͝͝͝O̷̺͒̽͐̎̒͊̽͛̈́̈́͐̋̎͘͝Ŭ̴̹.̶̡̮̐̆̈́̆ ̶̧̗̠̹͔̖̟̗̳̺̪̯͗͑̑͌̆̄͑̔̅̓͆͌͘͘͜͠Ḩ̴̞̺̥̻̫̘̥̍̿̓̓̏̐͜ẽ̵̛̮̔͆̑̅ ̵̪͍̤̓̚n̸̨̢̖̦̣̥̠̬̻̼̟͙̎̈̋̀͋̓̈́̈́̅͜͜͝e̶͖̥̥̟̼ͅv̶̢̜̻͙̬̥̯̝̗̼̏͒͂͒̒͛͒̈͊̐̕͠͝ę̸͍̊̒̾́̽̍͆͊̐͘͝r̷̢̰̘͔͈̖̹͎̠̯͍͈̱̘̈́͊̒̽̌͛̆́̅̚͘ ̸̰̲̿͂̋͂̑̏͠ć̵̢̰͙̮͔̳̫̻͎̫͎̮̽ȃ̶̢̨͚͖̘̳͎͕͉͎͇̯̦͇̐̂̏͗͌͗̾̽̔̌̕͘͝ͅl̶̹̗͈̲͌̈́̚͝l̷̡̤̰̪̰̠͈͇̬̼͈̼̙̿̽̃ͅě̸̛͇͔̔̎̂̈̐̃͑̌̒͒̿̕͠d̸̲̖̗̮̤̜͉͈̆̈̈́̌͘͝ ̵̨̛̹͚͇̜̦̲̙͔͔̦̯͈͌̆ͅm̶̡̠̖̠̲͓̟̈́͆̈́̀̆̔̄̉̃͜ͅę̷͉̳̼̙̗̣̣̅͆̈́͑͂͑̆̚͝͝ ̵͔̮̹͕̄̆́͜b̷̛͎̱͛͐͊̃͝͠ḁ̸̡̧̛̛̭̲̗̝͚̇̉̈́͋͗̑͐͂̋͐̄͝ç̵̡̥͕̽̅ͅķ̷̡̧̢͈͓͇͙̥̗̱̅͑͑̚,̶̨̰͖͈͉͍͐̅̎͛̔̆̎̅̚̚͝ ̸̡̛̞͕̥̗̞͚͔͋b̶̧͉͇͇̬̍̆̌̿̽̆̾ȩ̷̺̹͙̲̰̞̦̰̠͍͐̒̑̕̕c̴̘̹̣̤̥̮̥̲̗̹͌̐̌̏ͅa̴̡̨̛͚̗̭̪͚͉̻̰̲͖̖̹͒̓̿̄̍͋̓̕͠u̷̠̜̍͌͆͘̚͝s̷̡̢̛̛̘͕͈̦̺̭̋̋̒̈́̿͐̊̈͂͝ȇ̴ͅ ̷̡̢͍̖̳͍̘͎̯̼̤̞̫̠͛͑̈́̂̈̃̒̈́͝a̷̛̲̭͉̼̔̒̈́̃̅͌̏̌̎͛̅͘͝ ̴̢̩͚͓̦̲̊̔̇̅̆͒̈͒͘s̵̢͉͉̼͈̤̝͕͉̲̱̆̔̒̿̋̆͐̉̑̋h̷̢̩̙̳̩̩̗̘͈̞̳̫̎̔̈́̉̽͋͋͘̕͝͝r̸̛͖̰̲͓̼̳͓̉̄̈͒̀i̴̝̩̗̫̥̳̪͍̻͇̫͙̙͙͕͆͛͛̑n̵̨̡͖͍͈̝͎̯̦͈̟̗͙̗͇̿̉̃͗̈͘͠k̵̢̥̠͔͇̩̗͊̉̓ ̶̧̨͎̝͓̃̍̉̾̈́͑̂̓͊̀͂̚͠t̸͔̭̪̯̫̟̮̞̖̮͖͌̒͒̾̉̌̚͘o̵̡͍̭͈̥̽͌̆̃ǫ̷̱̤̼͆̔̄͒̈́̆̒̈́̾̚͝ͅk̴͔̣̰̱̥̞̯͔̗̗͇̓̈́͒̀͗͆͒̽͝͠ ̵̠̪̖̼͎̺̩̙̜̰̮͍̳͚̈́̅͛̽̅͘͜c̷̝̳̯̮̠̼̮̲͊̾͂̽́͆́̓̀͘ͅȃ̸̛̬͓̠͎̦̆̓̋̏͗̃͛̔͐̐͌̽ͅr̶̨̮̞̝̦͖̤̖̼̰̤̮̤̔̍̈́͑̂͗̅͘̚͜͝e̴̲̟̠̺̜̦̋͛̅̆͑͒̏̾̔͘͝ ̸͇̖̅̑̾o̸̧̧̡̜̼̫͓̠̫̥̲̫͉̼͆͒͛f̵̧̯͙͈̼̦̘̈̈́̓̽̈̒̓͂̕͘͠͠͠ ̴̽̓̿̀̿̈́̅̾͗͌͝͝͝ͅm̴̛͕̪̦̰̙̮͚̘̭͎̣̾̏͂͋̉̈́̐̅͌̀̌̚͜͜͝e̵̯̳͉͛̅̓̽͐̆̂̔͆͋͜͝.̴̛̟̩͇͓͊̏͋̑͊̅̾̄ ̸̢̤̹̝̖̠̫̹͍̭͕̎͗͑͊̓̍̽̔̀̒̈͘ͅͅT̸̖̪̬̽̇̌̓̏͛̄̽̓͌͋̈́͝͠Ḩ̸̢̺͍͚̤͚͔͉͇̬͕̐̈́͆̉̈̏͘̚͘͝Ē̷̢̛̺͇̣̱̦͍̤̥̬̿͆̈̔̑̓ ̵͇̲̻̗̅F̷̛̜̣̥͖̩̊̈́̓͊͝Į̵̛̼͈̭̳̰͔̮͙͚̬͖̠̣̔̋Ĕ̶̡̗̞͓̙̻͓̼̩͉͚̠̲̺̙͑Ņ̶̗̦̫̓̓͆̊͆̒̚͝D̴̡̢͔̱̝̤̠̯̯̩̖̾̎͗̈̑̃̒̂͝ ̶̢̧̛̛̳̮̺͍̟̩̪̱͕͙̘̩͑̃̌͗̓̏̅̓̓̋̾̒͜ă̸̢͈̭͖̗̒̐͆̀̓́͊̚̕̕ņ̴̛̙͙͈̰͕̹̬̻̠̯͙̤̤̂̇̒̑͝͠ͅḋ̷̢̧̰̟̞̰̥͖̰̖̭̤̱̽̑̌͒̓̉͐̾͐͛̒̂̕͜ ̸͚̭̻̳̺̊̋m̸̳̘̣͈͕͈͋͑͌̽y̶͖̞̼̳̱̥̯͎̙͉̱̓̚ ̶̛̰̪̭̦͉̻̝̎͋͐̅͜w̶̭̹̖̌̽̎͑̈̈́̍͗̉̊̆̌̕͘͠î̷̧̛̹͇̲̺̪͉͑͛̆͗̌̓̋̎͆̓͝ͅf̷̮͚̒̿̆͊̔̚ē̶̲̠̻͍̈̿͌̚͘ ̵̢͎̼̳̠̘̯͛́̅̊̔̊w̵̢̡̨̧̜̝̯̠̹͙̯̳̙͒͌̆̉̀̓̓͛͌̓͒͂͝ė̵̩̅̀͂͗̏͠r̸̠͚̘̣̳̮̣̹͇͔̠̫̦̱̉̏̕͜ȩ̴̬͔̫̩̭̮͈̥̤̣͖͍̱̋̓̈́̿͜͠ ̶̨̹̩͖͕̤̭̭̖͓̼̟̭̊̌̂̈́̄̿͗ͅḟ̶̢̢̧̟̬̹̪̣̭͍͕̍̍̈̅͋͜ŗ̸̧̤̱͓̥̺̞̔̊̈̚͝ì̴͔̯͙̻̫ȩ̶̼̻͆͆̐̿͛̇̾͆͒͆̕͠n̶̨̢̛̳͚̪̮̖̬̜̣̗͎̍̽̀͆̐̒̂̊́̈́͘͝ḑ̴̨̙͎͇̪̭̻̱͙̔̐̉̚ͅs̸̛̲̳̤͇̘̪͘,̷̧̧͈̺͉̘̬̥̘̹̮͛̎̑̇̈́̉́̕͜͠ͅ ̶̛͎͍̯̯̭͖̪͇̫̱̏͗͒͛̆̃͋͆̎͗̈ŷ̶̫̤̙̠̬̦̱̹̫̻͖͓̯̫̯̏̐͊̈̈̾̂̿́͠ȍ̷̢̟͚̤͇̦̭̤͇͓̹̦̹̆̉͊̅̋͠͝u̷̡̘̹͆̔̕ ̷̢͈̳͙͎̝͔̠̙̭͖̭̙̘͌̓̅̃͜k̷̨̡̲̺̘̗̬̻̯͚̺͚͖̟̿̒͂̈́͂̓̈́̈̍͝ń̴͇͈͕̰͋̈́͒̑̑̿͒̉͛̏͊̄̎ơ̷̡̩͍̣͇̘̻͂̉̿̄̐̓͆̂̓̽͑͠w̶̧͚͇̟̞̲̱̝̟̤̹̮͙͖̍?̴̨̢̯̳͈͉̹̥̤̭̜̝̗͕͑̓̈̉̄̍̏̐̉̒̈́̚̚͝ ̷͇͚̠̩̰̬̩̦̰̦̄͋́̊̂̕͘͠͝Ț̷̨̛̞̝͎̻̖̼̻̃̉̌́̍̕Ḧ̸̨̪͈͉̠͜Ę̵̢͔͍̗͈̮̺̜̩͈̰̥̀̓͌̇͐̆͊́̃̈́̎̃̕ ̴̧̪͇̰̫̪͜F̷̨̱̋̆̊̇͂͐͗̊̅͂͋͗̽͐͝I̸̝̺͊̈̇̄̓̓͝E̵̛̖̦̺͎̯̐̈̎͘̕͝Ņ̴̨̨̛̭̫͓̣̞̟͖̖̞̹͒̆͂͐͊͆̏͛͜͝ͅD̵̡̢̢͍̝͔͇̝̻͙̺̪̳̂̊̍̈̓͝ͅ ̴̨̗̳͇͕̩͇͚̝̲̋̽̋̏̓̌̊̾̋͑́̕͠i̴̥̜͋͑̑͒̔̈́̋̂͝s̸̨̲̥̼̳̤̗̥̙͒̏̑̓̆̽̒̓̕͠ ̷̨̢̰͓̩̩͇͖͉̙̍͋̎̄͛̚͠ḇ̶̛̟͙͈̘͙͗̅̇͛͐̓̑͆̕͠é̴̮̆́̆̉̆͗͛̇̔̇͆͑͋ī̵̛͉̤̗̤̆̀͗͐̃͒͗͌͂̾̿̿n̸͈̦̓̍̑̒͛̔̄͛̋͠͝g̷̨̛̳̗̺̮̗̿͑́̂̒̇̕ͅͅ ̵͚͓̱̯̘̇̿̈́̚p̷̢̛̮̍͊͛̈̍̾̀̍å̵̬̯̺i̸͕̮̲̣̬̥͕͒ͅͅd̵̘͈͑̃̔͝͝ ̴͉̑̈́̂̓̍̈́͑̐͘͝͝b̴͒̌̃̏̕͘̚ͅy̶̢̲͔̞̺̠̘̣̓̈́̓̄͝ ̷̛̺̈́̓̓̒̈̾̾͆͝T̶̞̺͉͙̞̺̗̳̥̼̖̮̲̰͔̈́̈́Ḧ̴͕͖͚̪͈͓͎̗̯̘́E̸̤̺̬̦̦͔̗̞̪̲̫̦̯͙͔̍̚ ̸̢̞̭̲̞̯̳͒͋̏̑̎Ḅ̵̫͚̀̐̌̍͐͋̿̊̉̓̌̄͒̄Ǫ̶̧̪̯̪͙͗̑͊̄͛͂͌̏̋̑̅̈́̓͘͜Y̶̛̪͗͑̿̔̿ ̵̘̋̿̃̊̽̈́͐̈W̶͎̭̘͎̫͗̎̆̀͊̒̚͝H̶͖͚̫̦͖͙̳̘̀̒̃͌̋̀͋̒̂͘̚͝Ŏ̷̢̼͓̬̞̗͕̮̘̃̌̂̉͜ ̴̡̧̫͔͚̠̮͓̼͙̥̬̞̌̈́͋̊̍͘̕͜F̶͈̱̦̭̯̉̀̐͑͛̔̉̈́̈́̓̿͘̕̕͝U̸̧̠͙͖̟͈̖̫͕̰̟͙͔̩͑̿̉̂́̏́̌͑Ċ̵̺͚̦̰̗͍͚̘͚̰̭̅̓̒͊͒̚̚K̸͉̼̣͍̠̟̮̥̤̏̑̈̑̾͊̆̄̀̾̐͝Ę̷͔̪̫̩̺̳̞̼̘̝̗̈̀͒̾͌̏̅͘͜D̸̞̮̫͇͕̘͍̥̖̃̚ ̸̛̜͖̺̞͎̄̔͗͋͆̌͂͌͋̕͝Ỷ̶̧̨͇͕̽͋̑͛̅̎̊̄͝O̴͓̖̩͚̹̭̭̍̎̽͑̌̔͛͝U̵͙͔̦͈̦̞̬͙͙̫̙̎̔̄̏͊͋̚͜R̷̖̈́̅̆̈̾ ̴̨̯̳͈͔̯̹̗̗̖̱̾̔̐͝B̶̡̢̜͎̫̼͚̙̹̻̠̣̯̎̋̔Ŗ̵̳̬̝͚̭̼͒̽̂̊̆̊Â̷̤͉͍̓̉͋̈́͘I̶̡̨̠̺͚̦̙̲̘̗͈͓̹͋͋̑N̵̦̳͖͍̥̳̲̻̉̌͜͝͝…̷̘͓̂̃͌͆͋͝ ̴̢̖̙̳̗̮͙̳͛̂e̶̗̘̝̬̦̳̙̺̦͑̐̒̍̇͗̊̒̈́̐̕̕͝͝v̷̛̺̺̭͚͎͉̲͇̝̬̠̣̙̓̈́̿͘ȅ̷̤͓̭̭̝̺͎̤͒̾͆̂͂͜ȓ̴̛̩̭̹͈̃̄͘̚͜͠͝y̴̢̢̯̲͎̺̦̫̙̲̯̟͓̍̿b̸̗̟̜̟̭͐͊̈́̍̽͠o̶͇̤̹̻͚͛͂d̶̜̟̮͍̈́͗̏͐̓̔͜ỵ̶̛͚̹͔̤̬̘̞͉̤̩̮̪͌́͆̀̓̓̌̊̎̕͜͝ͅ’̵̯͌̉̑̕͠ș̷̢̢͖͉̖͉͈̬̟͙̘̜̅̋̀̋̀̒͘̕ ̶̨͎̝͈̞͈̽͑̏͒̚͜ͅͅc̸̡̛͖͓̖̤̹̜̳̓̄̍̅r̷̨̡̢̬͖̲̭̭͙̬̺͚͓͎͇͂͆̍̊͊̇̓̀͌̆͝ȁ̷͓̗̭̤̰̱͍̃̾̀̅̈͐̀͑̋̇͜͠͝ž̶̧̬̘͈̘͈̳̻͙̠̻́̎͐̍̄̂͝͝y̵̧͉̖̝̘̥͈͎̻̖̯̗̓̈́͌̀,̷̡̲̗̜͉̪̙̥̘̗̅̂̓̂̎͊̓͘̕͠͝ ̶̺̼̈́̒͊͛̎Î̶̛̟̺̩̟̮͚͈̳̮͎̫̓̈́̽̌͌ ̷͎͎̒͘͠ͅĉ̸̡̧̩̜̺̙͇̩̬͍ạ̷͈͇͈̰̤̮̉͗̐͋̑͌̈́͘n̷̡͔̼̰̬̤̜͚̯̤̳͖͗̚ͅ’̷̨̤͓͚͉̩͔̜͎̥͕͛̅͋̒͘͝͠ͅt̶̢̛̛̜̩͙̼̯̔̂͆͌̓̈͂̀̕ ̵͎̰̦̮̼͕͙͉̤̄͝b̷̩͑ḙ̶͙̦͎̘͑̈́̄̎̄̀̓̇̿̐̎̚l̸̢̳̘̊̉̈ͅĩ̵̲̻̖̟̼̣̺̾̋͘ͅḛ̷̭̤̑̋̓ṿ̸̨̰̖͔̟̠̘̫͙̟̽͂͂̅̓ͅḛ̸̩̳̩̠̤̻͖̳͉̭̋̓̄̅̎̓̑͛̿͋͌͜ ̴̢̡̧̦̝̮̩̗̲̟̞̖́ĩ̷̦̀̂̎̋̐̔̈́̽̓̄̍͘͝ṱ̷̥̬̑̉̂̎̋̉̔͐́̆͆̈́̅,̴̢̢̛̻̭̻̥̘̰͍̼̦̗̟̪̊͛̓̋̎̓͐̀̌̽͠ͅ”̴̡̡̛̛͙̥͕̫̣͖̜̜͍̦̭̆̉̑̓̆͗̂͑̐̑ͅ ̷̘̲͐̈́͒̏̕ṛ̷̬͈̥̖͙̆̍͑̆̏̄̍͝ḛ̷͎̫͙͖̑̓̈̓̈̇͑̓̂͂̉̑͠v̴̡̡̛͉͕͖̖͊̽̋̋̌̎͌̅̆́̓͝è̵̡̧̡͇̺̤͜͠ṋ̶͕̹̯͕̄̂̔g̴̨̓̔̊̈͐̑̔̑̃͊̕̚͠e̵̯̙̹͔̪͙̱̭̜̝͒̕ ̷̤̙̯͓̩̺̪͓̝͔̙͙̖̑̐́̑̉͂͘͘̚͝͝ş̴̩͌̓̊͌c̴̨̙̻̗̗͕̩͎͖̠̼̱͔̭͗̽̏̏̆̕r̴̨̧͖̖̭͉̮̪̺̼̹̼̠͗e̶͙̘͓̙͕̩̖͚͑͊̑͜͝a̷̛̰͉̲̝̮̐̂̐m̵̨̧̨̜͉͔̳͚͉͉͈͍̾̉͌̌̊̓s̵̨̡̬̯̯̒̍͛̄̃͑̋ ̸̖̹̈́̇̉̆͋̊̈͝͝ȁ̴̛͍̥͉̜̥̖̮͉̣̅̈̇̓͒̉͜t̵̢͍͇͔̙̭̜͖͖̥̜̤̊̃͌̂̅̃͜ ̸̯͙̗̠͂͛͂̇͊̊̚t̴̢̨̠̳̗̮̩̘̬̟̙̳̲͐̋ḣ̸̨̤̝̻̠̐̾ë̸̡͓̤̮̔̅̽̈́͘͝ ̶̢̭̦͇͍̞̗̺̣̂̓̌̈́̀̿̓́̽̈́̒̈͝e̸͖̦͚̣̘̬̙̣͍̳̫͒̑͛͒̉̀̿̒͝n̴̲̏̓̀̑͛̎̓̉̚d̸̡̪̱͋̓̏̆̑͘͜.̷͎̭̭̦͓̣̼͖̳̂́͛͊̄̋͊͆̊̋̒̿̿̚͜ͅ ̵̤̥̙̪̺͚̯͚̮̮̼̇́̆͜H̶̢̢̰͎̥̦͖̉͒̊̔̔͗̒̌͒͂͝ͅe̶͚̮͈͍͓͓̖̮͂ ̵̥̝̳̤͇͙̩̩̎̆͂̄̑̋̔̀́̀s̴̟͕̭̗͈̪͗̾̔̈̊͂̕͜͝c̴̫̰̠͔̬̺̯̾̈́̂̽̇̋̽͒̋͌̚͘r̵̤̭̞͓̰̽̂e̶̢̯̅̃̀a̴̡̢̝̗̻̲̼̗͕͉̝̿͋̓̃m̸͔̯̫͐͋̓̐̀̏͌̆̈͊̋̕s̵̨͈̙͈̘͈͖̭͕͔͙̄̽͋̿̂̽̎͌̈́͌̚̕̚͜ͅ ̷̡̢͓͈̜͚̻̠̘̪̼̅͐̅̅̈́̉̓̈́̋̈́̚͘ͅâ̴̧̛̯͚͖͉̺̰͔͓͙̖͑̓̂̾͆̒̕̕͜͝ͅt̷̨̳̜͉̟̯̜͍̲̟̪͕̦̪̾̇̈́͌͌̃ͅ ̶̢̡̳̱̝̳̺̬̥͆̾̍̆̚ẙ̴̥̫͎̤̦̖͈͉̩̪̙̼͈̊͛̒͐ͅǫ̵̼̮͙̞̮̠̫͖̈͑̏̊̇̎͂̾͒̕͝͠ṵ̴̧̧͇̟̞̈́̃͒͒̍͊̈́͝.̴̧͇̬̣̤̭̗̣̝͓͖̼̈̌̔̊̑̈͗̽̑̐̋͒̄͘͠ ̸͉̟͓̟̪͎̺̠̈́͆̐̆Y̵͈̼̯̠̘̗͕̦̳̞͘ô̵̡̨̜̠͔͖͔̩̾͛̊͝͠u̷̳̬͕̝̯̭̭͈̪̹̩̻̙̻͙̔͛̇̈́̕ ̵̪̣͇̥͍̥͖̺̭̤̌͝ä̴͈͔̼̰̥́̇̍̈́̑̃̏r̸̛̼̲̘͔̟̪̝̗͎̲̝̰̺̊̋̑̈́͑̋̓͌͝͝è̴̤̜͉̺̥̆͐̆͗̈́́̌͘͜ ̸̣͂̈́̌̾̌ề̶̛͙̦͕͖̰͓̖̗̲̰͔̀̿̇͜͠v̵͙̬̼̫͉͇̯́̇̽̽͑͛̊̇̆̌̃͊̾̏̚ì̸̛̛̮͍̻̞̣̰̻̒̐̄̍̈́̏̽̑͒̈ͅļ̴̱͙̲̳̯̩̭̝̼͖̙̆ͅ!̵̧̣͈͕͈̯̳̺̭̪̎͗̂̊̈͜͜͜͠

_i can’t bear this shit… why did my other self do this to me?_

“Please stop!” Ë̵̝̹͈͈̽̽̈́̆̄̂̈́͛͝r̶̨̧̧̢̹͉̲͈̻̦̺͎̦̠͛͗͐̽̑̀̈́͆̎̿̚i̶̩̹̳͓̱̋̔͊̋̽̒̉̀̕̚c̵̢̛̦̻̬͖͚͓̞̉̿̂̉̚͝ ̸͓͎̔ interrupts. H̶̭̫͚̳̞̒́̍̇̆̕͝ȩ̴̘͔̹̥̰̪͉̋’̵̘̗̣̹̱̙̪̲̺̜̜͍̑̈́͋̿͂͐̑̚͝͠͝s̷̟̈́͛̽̍ ̷̧͕̟͍̝͍̻̭͓̟̼̘̭̀̅̽̔͑͊̿̅̒͋̕͝ͅc̴̡̛̬͖̗͇͙͌̎͗̅͒͆̈́̉̌͛̕͠ȓ̸͎̯̠͍̼̹̝̻̥͎́̈́̂̒͌̚y̴̥̫͔̪̬̹̿̿̊̃̂̌̎̾͊î̵̝̭͚͎͎͓̜͜n̷̨̫͖͈̜̰̲̺͆̈̃̂̏̈͗͆̃̾̎͗̌͝͠ĝ̴̣͗́̕͠ ̶̨̧̢̺̫͔̗͖͇̊̽̑͑̕͘̚͝͝ḇ̴̨̰̠̖̞̭̐͑̿͛̇̎̾͝ȅ̴̟̘̻̱͓̰͉̜̈̈́̇̏͂̾̄͒̅͋̀͠͝c̵̢̻̹̺̗͍̯̺̣͇̘̈́̐̃̏̆͌̑̓̌̇̅̓̊͊ą̶̢̛̬͖̞̱̫͔̗̘̱̜̭͉̞̒͆̊̃ų̶̡̺̠͓͎̻̝̤̱̬͚̈̂̔͊̊͂͒͛̍̃̕͜͜͝͝͠͝ͅs̸̹̏̂̔̓͠e̷̺̼̻͇̓͑͒͊̒̈́̽ͅ ̴̞͚͎̆̇h̴̼̓͒͒̆͂̇̍̓̌̒̉̒͘͝ͅḛ̴̭̩̙͚̯͖̩̞̖̤̠̬͇̋͂͑̈́̀̂̍̏͆̎̂͘ ̸̹̤͖͌͛d̷̨̢̤̖̭̬͔̣̄̓̋̐̒͆̆͑̚ỏ̴̡̦̱͚̦̲̦̽̏̊̃͌̾̾̕ȩ̷͎̇͊͐̊͗̚s̴̡̬̝̰̥͔̭̫̣̗̬̬̣͗͆̌̅̾̏͋̓͠ͅn̶̢͍̍̍̒͊́̇͊̊̆͌̋ͅ’̸͎̫̪̖͔̅̈́͌͒̃̅͗̒͋̐̆̆͝t̶͍̥̺̰͛̏͗͊͑̓̈́͑̈́̆͗͌͂̚͝ ̴̧͎͉̼̭̎̏̅̈́̓͝ẅ̴̗̗͈̙̐͌̈́̅̉̿̔̆̕͘ͅà̶̢̧̳̫̜̟̦̉́̏͗̊̚̚ͅn̵̹̭̰̐̅̍͐͒̏̈̀̌̚͝͝͝t̸̢̢̤̖̰͍͎͚̊̆̒̈̉̐͜ ̸̡̧̹̥̥͈̦̜̘̬̫̀̂̇̐̌̚̕ț̷͔̥̭̙̗̞̣̃̓͑̅͊̍o̸̞̘̹̩͖̦̯̼̼͈̼͍͆̐ͅ ̸̡̡͈̼̫̳̙̳͕̀̀̏̏̓͌̇͂̾̓̄̈́̚͝͝p̶̹͉̙̽̒̈́̏ų̷̬̪̝̞͍̞̩̥͖͈̠̱̪̿̓̒̓̐̉s̵̨̟̮̯̣̬̝̯̯͔͍̱̺̃͌̏́̀̋͝ĥ̵̢̧̲̹̬̩̻̱͆́̍̍̓̑͛͘̚ ̶͕̟̓̓̆͂͐̄͛͝ẏ̷̦͎͊̄̋̎̀͋̊̓͆̄̕͝͠ė̸͈͇͎͍͔̣̤̖̯̘̗͎̈́͒͝ͅṯ̷̢͍̯̬͎̪̹͊͘͜ ̵̢̬̪͖̠̰̼͕͈̘̽̀̎̑͌̃̌̒́͘͝a̴̟͍̩̗̤̒̒n̶͕͖̿ͅơ̸̢̼͔̠͓̣̰̠̱̺̾̈́̍̽͌̓̄̂̓̂̌̑͘t̸̡͉̤͚̠̙̦͎͓͒ͅh̶̙͇́́̈̑̍͋̌̉̈́̓͘ȩ̶̧̢̮̘̤̻̗̳͖͉̱̱̯̑̔́̄͑̄͊͂͝ř̶͕̩̤̠̹̜̳͓̗͍̤̟̐̈͊̓ ̴̡̖̅̐̃͜ḃ̷̧̳͖̭̊̈́̏̆͋̍̔̂̚͜͠͠͠u̴͙͇̲͙̦̳̱̝̳̇̉͛̈́͋͘͝l̴̢͍̬̀̈̆̆̄̓̈͊̂͒͒̄͝ḷ̶̫͌̒̆̓͘ȩ̴̗͈̺̠̤̦̀̓̓͐̒͌̒͌͌̑̍̈́̒͂̆t̶̞͓̰̘͇͚̠̤̽́͌͊̐̊ ̷̬̖̮͖͉͍̬͓̓͋͋̂̂̐̏̓͘͝͝͝t̸̛̛̙͖͔̰̟̰̗̼̮͖̥̋͋̀̏̐͌͗̿͛̆ḩ̷̨̛̻̦͕̥͚͇̥͌́̽́͊̇̃ͅr̶̛̛̮̩̬̗͚̘̬̺̭̊̓̍̃̊̎̓̌o̴̢͇̪̝͔̳̭̐́̋ͅṵ̴̯̔͌̉̆g̸̲͕̩͔̭̜̭̱̟̎͒̅͗h̸̢̧̺̬̩̹̝̞̜̺̱͑̇̚͜͝ ̸̮̦̲̲͈̭̥̣̭̀̀̚h̶͙̍̏͋̎̿͆̏͐͒i̴̧̝͍̽͑̒͌̂̉̃ṡ̶̛͎̪̈̈͑͒̍ ̶̳͍͐̃̊̐̑͋̀̏̓͠ͅŝ̴̛͖͕̟͔̚k̶̡̹͔̞͐͒̓̋̔͆͊͛̈́ủ̸̪̹̇̈́̚͝l̴̨̛̻̝̈́̅̕l̴̢̗͔̭̻͚̹̦̳͉̠͇̼̥͗͂̊͛̂̀̿.̶̧̠̬͎̼̦̇̊͆̚͜͝͠͠ ̷̡͑͒͆̂̎͋̊̽̍̆̀̔͝He snuffles as he clears his throat. T̴̪̼͚͍̣̰͕͂͒̋͊̑̈͝h̸̘̪͍͍̆̓̏͊͆̌̏̓͊͘͝ā̴̛̛͍̜̺͇̿̓͗̐̃͠n̷̮̦̺̫̪͖̪̭̺̺̘̥͓̩̆́̅̉̀̈́̐͑ķ̴̛̰͇̦̯̪͍̩͕̜̖̩͛̓͊͗̈́͐͒̿̊̏͠š̴͎̺͔͙̃̉͌́̕͝͝͝ ̸̝͎̹͕̺̼̦͙͖̩̪͊̍̄͂̊̈̂̐̚̕͝ͅͅf̷̰̠̝̻̩̪̱̫̖̞̻̺̃̓̂̚ö̷̧̖̰̮̲͙̞̰̥̪̖͍́̂̿̽͛͂͐͝ͅŕ̴̼̈́̎ ̵̹͚̐t̷̡̘̘̲̱͓͉̜͙̠͊̒ȩ̵̫͍̗̟̙͋͌͂̈́͠͝l̷̢̛̙̹͔̝̩̼͔͕͚͚͚̪̩̈́̍̓ͅḷ̷̛̻͚̰͈̪͙̭̥̯͍͉̩̬̩͌̏̈́̀̽̋̊̏͌̀͛̚̕͝ī̸̺͈̐͌̎̚̕͝n̵̢̛̺̼̦̹̽͊͂̈̋͐͆͠ǧ̵̞̭ ̶̹͖̤͇̜̹̺̗̖̞̪͚̃͋̈́̍̓͂̔̋̎͗̓́̚͘͜m̸̧̛̟̫͈̱͓̲͉̹͙͓̳̀̂͐̍̍̏e̷̢̛͉̠͖̲̺̩̭̱̤̎͑͗͆̂͆̂͂̏͆̀̇̕̚͜,̷̢̧͉̰̟͉͍̭̪̫̌̆̎̈́͝ ̵͍͙̙͇͈͎̲̯̜̎̈̕͠͠d̸̜̬̳̼͝ê̶̲͕̘̙̬̙͙̅͛̽̃̔̅̑a̴̡̲͙̘͔͉̜̼͚͍̹̯̻̦͛̈́̄͛͛͋̇͊̌̚͝r̶̩͎͍͈͖̠̣̭͚͓͇̤̈́̑͛̾ ̶̟̞̼͕͕͖̞͔̬̪͔̺̜̪̓͜r̵͚̗̪̟̈́̀̎̂͐̍̿́̒̀͆͝͝e̸̡̪͙̭͚̖̰͔̠̞̺̭̣͉͋̈́̈́̿̎̃̋͆͠͝ͅv̴̧̢̛̺̝͇̠̼̘̠̰͇̼̟͛̉̂̅͑̀̊̈̇̉͝ͅè̶̬͍̉̌͋͜ͅṉ̶̨̛͎̳̯̱͓̗͇̣̰͙̦̺̽̒͌̓̇̐̋̚͝ͅģ̶͖̃̽̔̊̅̉̅̑͒̓͑̏̄̚͝ȩ̶̢͓̳̥̝̯͎͙͕̦̺̳̊̌̊̽̽̀̇̅̎̆̕͘͘͜ͅ.̴̧̙͉͉͔̃̿́̿̈́̊́̃̕ ̴̡̨̬̣͕̜̗͓̾̽͜Ì̴̛̠̤͊̆̊̔͆͊̋̀̑ ̴̱̤̼͇̳͎̤͍̙͎̱͈̻̳͍̍̈́̈̄̂͒̆̓͛̐̾̊̕n̵̨̛̫̞̙̩̠͓̳͐̾̏͆͝e̵̛͙̘̺̲͖̬̗̩̮̮̍̉̂̂̊͗̿̏̀̚͝ͅe̴̝̮̖̺͕͕̪̾͛͘͜ͅd̷̨͉̘̙̦̹̞̳͕̓̋ ̵̠̤̲͙͉͖̪͚̬͂̿̑̐̕͝t̷̛̯̗̬̞͍̱̫̲͔͇̣͚́͆͂̃̄͂͌̂̐̊̕͜ö̸̫ ̸͈̄̂̏̍͌̏̑̈́̋̿̚͜t̶͖͖͚̗̻͍͂̇̽a̷̯͉̺̮̥͚̱̻̓͑͌̓̍̔̏̾͛͘̕͠l̷̨̢̧̩͉̞̖͚͇̣̞̖͋ķ̵̤̻͚̼͎̱̗̏͛̉̊̀͘͝ ̷̡̣̳̠̣͔͖̼͆͂̋̅̊̒͊̏t̴̡̡̤̼̹͍̪͙̯̖͕̼̫̘̎̏͑͋̿̃̒̒̎̋͠ͅǫ̵̝̂̃̓̒͂͂̂̒͑̀̇͑͆͝ ̶̨͙̝̜̜͈͔̯̦͖̙̗̦͙̏̕m̷̫̉͒̅̌y̸͈͖̭̲̞̝̖͐̆͑́͑̇́̋̿͒̌͠ͅ ̸̗͂o̷̗̅̆̅̚̚l̶̻̪͕̉ḋ̸̢͎͎̼̮̞̙̣̥̤͔̖͎ ̷̨̧͇̭͈̲̤͍̌̈́̇̅͊̾͒͗f̵̧̧̛̤͔̼̦̹̫͇̗̜̹̦̎̉̕r̸̢̮̗͔͉̾͆̕ỉ̷̛̠̹̣̰̘̞̥̩̘̝̻̥͖̏͌̋̓̔e̸̦̹̫͎͆̽̒͐̕n̶̨̢̦̭͇̫̔̄͋̑̄̿̆͑̍͘͝d̵͓̼͖̺̊̂̋ ̶̭͔̳̉̅̏͌n̷̲̼̊ó̸̭͖͕̲͙̬̟͙̝̹̝̱̟̜̈́͒͒̓͌̒̿̎͒͝w̸̡̝̼͉̤͕̪̘̫͚̭͌̇̏̇͒͛̑͗͋̍̓ͅ.̷̛͕̭̯̺̫̝͎̫͊̆̔̆̇̒͗̐̄̕͠ ̴̣̖̙̥͗̆̓̕A̸̧̧̲͈̩̯͉̒̐̈́̔̕͠l̵̯̲̦̱̔͂̄͌̔̾͝o̷͔͍̯̟̓̔̋̌ņ̸̫̫̻̝̰̔́͝ë̶̳͓͈̖͍̖̙̻̝̗̊̈͆͂̐̔̾̕͠…̶̢̢̡̧̬͕̟̜̠̗̬͍͈͋̅͂̄̈͜ͅ ̶̳̻̻̘͉̤̘͔͍͗̋Î̵̧̧̛̛̠͓̗̩̗̖͇̠̜̪͓̫͊̐̇͛͘ ̸̢͇̬̼̻̥̪̗̈́͆͌̋͂̅w̷͈̱̠̟̳̞̘̳̜̥̫̒̽̐̏͝i̸̫̗̙̩̋̔̌͒̀͜͠l̸̢̛̛̺͔̾̓̉̌̆̚l̶̢̧͍͇̭̯̫̹̯͔̰͍̀͘͝ ̴̺̜͔͈̣̣̦̒̈̐̄̔̽̎̌̔̂͘͝͝ͅͅM̶͇͔̩̼̱̱̘̘͇̠̙͙̦̮̄͊̃ͅA̴̺̫͎̭̰͔̖̬͕͎͊̓͌̀͘K̴̨̺̦͙̣̙͖̟̭̤̯̍̈́̂̓͛͂̔̕͝Ể̶̢̗͉̪̜̝̹͍̬͖͕͜ ̷̳̿͋̔̈́̿̆̂̔̒͋̉̕͘Ḧ̶̛̛̰̤͇̲̼̭͈̘̳͉̝̰̠͕́̓͗̈͌̑͊̈̈́̍͒͝Ḯ̴̢͍̲̜͓͖̝̙̤̠̾̑̐́̎͗̏͂͜M̶̛͚̙̭̰̱͍͊̐͒̚ ̷̟͍̬̥̳͙̳͔͛͊̑͂̚S̸͈̰̲̠͓̙̙̝̩̓̿͛͗̒ͅͅƯ̴̰͓̦̖̮͍̲̼͚̊̓͒̈́̉͌͋̊̈́͘͠F̸̪̞͔̼̞̳̮̪̺̓͐̈́̿͘͝F̷̢͍̩͖̹̆̃̔̃̽͐͊͛͐͋̈̍͒̿E̷͈̣̖̮̺̐̂̊͐̇͆̆̌͒͋̓͘Ŗ̷͇̼̹̼̟͖̬̦̞͖̠̥̊͜ͅ ̶̰̰͊̂̈́̏̏̇͗͆͝Ȅ̸̳͔̪̫̾̄̏̎͆̋̓̍͊̓͠V̵̛͎͎̼͎̭͔̰͗͒̑̒̋̏̔̊̆̄́͛̋͘Ẹ̶̛̩̪̮̯́̈́͋̓͒͌͠͝͝N̶̢̡̝̙͍͙̙͖̯͖͎̳̝̊͋͆̈́̄̓̏͗̅̋͘ ̴͉̣̥̿̇̈́̓M̶̨̧̨̢̼̜̻͛̓̏͑̇̈́́̒̓̾͜͠͠Ǫ̷̢̢͓̬̰̟̪̌̃̀R̵̡̧̙̟̣̲̠̰̙̼͙̞̝̙̾͜E̷͓̰͚̼͔̖̩͎͕͋̐̌̓̈́̓̿͛̃̓̽̐̕ͅ.̴̨̢͍͚̼͇̮͙͔̤͙̊̉̎̒ ̶̫̯͉̯̙̎͗͘͜R̸̭͖̯͗͆́͜e̵̤̙͓̘̱̹̝͐̏̓͆͊̿̅̊̓̀̚̚͝͝v̸̲̙̘̯̻̙̓ȩ̶̛̺̤͐̇̃͘͜n̵̢̩̦̭̗̰̜͎̫̏̋͗̂̓͜͝ͅg̷̨̨̛̭̰̲͕̗̳̺̤͋̒̾͌̀̍̿̄͂̃̏̔̾ė̵̛̺̟̼̪͉͙̤̲̪̥̼͖͍͑̐͋̈́͂͂̀̇̈́̚͝͝ ̴̡̨͉̻̼̘̹̦̦͎̔̏̓̕ͅȩ̶̖̳̫̪̤͉͇͖̼̻̝̰̮̖͛͐̎̓̎̄̍͌̍̿͂̉̊͠͝x̵̡̨̡̧͇̺̰̻̯̭͇͎͌̂ͅh̴̺̘͚̟̜̃͛̂͆͠͠͠a̶̢̙͎͗̂͋͐͛̏̍ͅl̶̡̙̗̰̗̘̥̰͇̫͔̙̫̆͑ē̸̫̻͕̺͓̆̓̈́͒̐̄ş̴̛͙͖̗̲͓̟̞̹̱̼͈̜̥̑̏̎̇͊͛̊͝ ̵̡̨̜͕̭̣̲̥͍͔̘͉͆̏̔͗̽̕ͅt̶̹̯͚͉̝̳̥̳͈͉̞̳͍̖͌͌͐̂͌̽͋̒͒͒͝ͅh̶̢̡͚̣͍̝̘̘͓̰̯͚͉̑̌̿̏͆̾̐̍ȑ̴̛͚̪̰͚̱̐͒̔̓̉̕͜o̶̡̘̬̱̩͎̮̤͈̰̮͐̿̿̇̎̾̐̀͘ǘ̸̢̱̭͇̳̊̐̐̓͆̐͑̊̚g̴̡̛̜̦͙̩̞̖͔̞̗̯̑́͂̌͋̋̅̈́̎̄͘͠͝ḩ̴̛̝͍͉̖̠͙̠͎̞͙̫̋̌̾̌̀̒͒̈́͌͝ ̴̡̨̨͎͓̱̮̲̬͙̻͑͛̅͌ͅḫ̶͔̬̲̠͇̄̎͗̏̄͋̌͛̑̌̚͝î̸̛͙̹̙̋͊͋̆̄͆̑͝s̵̢̪͙͕̯̯̮͚̲̲̹̹̰̈́̋͆̐͗͑̂͠͠ ̸͔͔̦̼͎͉͚͈̜̭̻͗́̈́͑͊͂͐ͅn̵͓͖̤̭͊̓́̊̆ö̴̧̨̮̺̲̮̪́́̂͌̽̅͠ş̶̪̝̺̱͕̬̻̻̈̈́̈́̎̓͜͝e̷̫̪̥̙̦͉͙̟̫̺̙̥͖͕͎̐̿̋͒̈̂̅̀̈́̚ ̶̪̓̅̀̈́̈́ą̴͖̬̹͚̖̤̮̰̗͉̊̈͝͝n̷̡̬̖̣̬̼̯͍̭̱̱̊̑̓̈̄͑͊͠͝d̴̛͓̬̄̐͠ ̵̢̱̱͔̺̮̭̞͐̑̚͠ḩ̵̨̣̰̹͓̹̳͔̭̌̏͌̎͘͘͜͜ͅi̵̛̱̺̤̖̻̟̘̱̤̮̅͆̈́̅̀̈́̾̿͂̂̉͆͝s̵̺̓̉̈́̒̀͋̇͐̈́̕̚͠ ̵̢̡̡̩͈̖̳̞̭̞̖̖͈͆̽̓̈́͌̾̃͂̎͂̌̕̕͜͝͝ͅw̷̢̙̭̫̤̞̟̤̳̘̰͉h̴̨̙͎͓͈͔͇͉̝͓͙͔̑̅̈́̉̋͜e̶̯͚̝͑̏̓͛̔̈́͘e̶̜̝̬̬̠̽͒͛̀͑̂̍̎̎͗̍̐͝͠l̶͙̥̗͖̳͍͖̬̒̽͝ͅç̶̲͈̦̜̈́̊h̵͖͆̑̓͒͊́͒̚̚͘̚͘͘ȧ̴̛̪̰̦̥͎̝̲̼̹̭̟̲͈͋́̊͑̾̾̈́̌̓̽͝ͅi̷̺̲̝͔͔̗͙͓̰̪̎̎̈́̃͒͜͜͠ͅr̷͎̻̞̦̹̔̌̓̋͘͜ ̴̡̻͔͕̰̉̓̂̓̕s̵̢̢̢̮̤͇̳̲͇̤̩͔͛̂̌͂̉͐̕q̷̡̤̫̘̞̙͓͎̝͖̻̰̋̀̋͜ͅu̶̧̱̜̽̇͂̐̓͐̍̕͠e̸͚̜̍̃̄̓̉͗̓̾͂a̷̦̹̥͉͐̐͆͛̂̍̆̃̂k̵̢͇͖̖̩̖̦̖͉͒̈́͛̇̋̇̐̾̅͗̊͆̄̕͜ḯ̷̧͍͖͎͙̟͔̭̫̹͙̈̊̅̆͝͝n̸͙̙͔̪̯͎̗̫̫̔͗̋̃̆̈́g̷̠̤̳͇̜͐̓̊͛̊̈́̂̚͠ ̵̬̊̏̌̽̄͗̓̂͆̉̈̌w̸̧͓͕̜̥͈͆͆͌̾̋̚͜ḧ̶̨͕̻̺̗̯̺͓̱́̆́̓̓̆́̅̔̋͝ͅͅį̸̨̱͚̳̱͉̲̦̲̪̅̒̌̀̀̏͒̕ͅl̵̡̛̙͛̆̈̇̈́̒̾̒̂͠ę̶͇̟̳̪͚͈̫̘̜̘͈̦͖̞͋̌̓̈́̂̀̍̌͋̑̓ ̶̛̦̺̩͈̙̩͖͌̐͜h̸͇̻̠̤̑̓͌̑̓͝ȩ̸̨͎́̀ ̷̛̛̻͇̞͇͙̩̣̙̪̖͐͗͂̅͑̽̈͗̚t̵̨̯͓̜̤̬̟͎̼͇͚̤̠͂̄̋̑̊̊͝͠ͅu̸̡̨̨͚̣̦̮͖͙̱̼͕͙̠̿̓̿̑͊̇̀̿͘͘̚͠͝r̶̛̰͍̿̀̊̃͛͌͛͗͝͝ͅņ̶̛͇̣̣̥͙͍̙̯̫͈̊̓̎͌̀̔͜͝s̷̻͓̲̱͉͇͚̰̺͙̃̈́̐͌͐̀̽̄͐̐̒̇̐ͅ ̶̢̖̮̱̬̫̲͈̐̂̋͘ä̸̯̟͇̞̻̹͚̬͙́̈́̿r̸̡̡̖̩̣̝͔͍̹͕̝͉̘̮̱̒ȯ̵͉͙͖̝̪͕͚̣̞͖̩̟̾̂̄͜ų̷̼̬̹͙͚̃͋̅͐n̶̲͕̖͕͇̫͉͈̲̯̬̝̍̐͐̈́͆͑̑̋͌̉͂̈͜͠͠d̴̛̘͍̦͎̓̏̀̓̂̐͛̊̎͒̒͘̚.̸̯̣̞̟̲̙̆̚̚͜

_i don’t want to die! ~~god~~ , this is awful!_

After a while, Steven sits down next to me and opens my clenched hand. Kate’s necklace has become fairly warm in my palm. He touches the cross with one of his fingers and then says,  
“You can keep it. I think that is what she wanted.”

_is everything normal again?_

Still he touches the chain of her necklace and thus his thin fingers tickle around my hand. “Did she die, a year ago?” I guess, to me, I sound like a prophet - and to him, it means I finally remember something. N̶̤̈́́͛̽̏͊͗̏̃͠Ǒ̴̭̳̭̭͎̅́͊̃̈̃͝ ̷̨̡͚̜̙̯̫̦͉̖̺̟̥̠̒͊͑̐̍̔͘͠͝͠O̴̘̪̦̻̜͎͙͗̈́̉̓̓̉̇͐̕̚͝͠N̵̡͇̘͓̈́̏̅͒̈́̿Ė̶̥͕͆̍̋̔̈́̅̃͆, because of you ~~o̵̮̹̲͔͇̠̬̳̮̯͇̦̘̽̐̅ͅͅu̴̢͕̞̲̰̬͚͕͉̪̳̯͐ṟ̷̄ͅ ̸̖̥͕̑̂͆͒̈́͛Ś̶̜͖̬͍̹̜͚͖͎̓͋̏a̶̡̢͎̟̱͛í̷̟̥̪̺͈̺͚̋̉͗͑͋̅͑̉͠n̸̨̛͈͕̳̟̻̳̳͑̾͌̈́̈́͆̊̋̽̉͌̋̓͆͜ͅt̵̨͉̱̺̟̭̲̩̗̰̬̊̒̍͋̾̿̓̍̏͌͋͒̈́͐ ̶̘̥̳̋̍̄̅̇̂͌̒~~ will run a n̸̠̯̖̜̦͛̇͂͗e̷̤̱̺̙͖̘̬̒̍̉̓̇͋̉͑̓̚͘v̸̰̞͔̗͈̊͆̾ë̴̠̙̪͇̭̲̥̫̪̿̿̄̏̿̉̌̿ͅr̵̡̛̟̪̦̗̘̓̈́̂̆̔̈̕͘͜͝ͅ-̷̣̮̩̞͇̫̺̟̄͌̋̀͐̎̇͗̅̾̕͘ȩ̶͇͈̙̙͚̬̦̫̪̲̦̮̍̅͊͜n̸̨͉̻̞̜̩̰̥̜͔͎̿̐̈̌̋̈̉̔̔͐́̾͠d̷̪̼͖̗͊͐̉ͅī̶̬̘͚̪͖̦̗̇͂̚̕͝n̷̮͎͔͚͎͔̩̙̩̣͚̿̓͊̔̍͋͐ͅg̴̨̳͈̙̮̞̈̈́̂̽̿̽́̊̊̑̓͒͘ ̴̮̫̘̟̗̯̜̗͙̻͙̹̌͜ͅp̴̘̈́̒̒̽͗a̴̡̛̗̠̦͎̖͍̳̗͉͆̇͆̄̓̿͑̀͗̔̏͝͠͠ͅṭ̸̮̺̤̘͈̯̞̹̈́͂͂͌͒̓̊͝ͅḫ̸̼̦̜͉̳͖̼͙́̇̉̽̿̈́̂̉̅̔̈́͆͗̑͗ ̴̛̙͎̠̖̱̰̯̮͛̌͑͋̓̎̚ơ̷̻͉̝̋̍͋̓͆̓̓͐͂̇̀̕̕f̵̙͈͚͙̞͇̳͂̔̄́͐͜͝ ̴̡̧͓̫͚̰͍͎̗͙̎̂̒͗̽͜f̵̲̳̒͛̂̀̍͆̔͘͘ḯ̶̼͈͍̺̣̝̞͇͑r̶̖͓̋͛̉̀̈͆̇̂̑͐͛ȩ̵̛̰̤̞̣̝̙̲͚͙̖̩͕͚̮̔̅̀̃̒͝ ̶̩̳̖̼̩̯̹̭͕́͒̽́̿̈́͗͠ͅt̴̢͈̤͖̱͈̘̺̟͎͙̼̔͒̈̑ͅh̷̨̛͓͕͓̤̳͊̈̈́͐̚r̷̩̰̥̫͈͕̳̠͍͇͎͂͛̇̈̓͆͜o̸̢̡̭̺̱̫͔͈̾̐̈́̎͒͊̓̄̃̆̂͘͘u̴̟̮̰͑͂͒̄̀̉̈́̇̊̌̒ͅg̸̝̤͉̜̤̮̞̹̎͂͝h̷̫̙̰̖͌́̓͂̌̉͑ͅ ̵̺̳̝̙̪̮̘̭̰̲̀̓́̈͒̀̾̏͑͘͜͝ͅh̵̨̟͉͔̫̖̲̪̭̓̍̚ě̷͓̺̮̗̟̭͎̜̠̰̰̐̽͋̎͋͊̚ͅl̷͓̪̪̦͇̩̍̌̈̌̅̽̅͆̆͂̚͘͜l̸͖̙̥͆́͌̏͋͌͗̕͠.̶̨̲̭̫̻̙̭̦̣̪̤̥͙̋̃̄̏̅̇̽̋̋̃̏̅̈̚ ̴̢͙̠̼̞̮̣̥̪̅͌̍̒͋̇̇̃̅̐̆̎͜Y̷̢͍̬̙͂̅̽͋͂͘͜͝͝͝o̴̡̱̹̻̪̞͚͐͋̿̄͋͒̓͂̋̍͝ư̴̳̎̑͒̋̃̃͗̕ ̴͎̱͑͐̎͊͛̋̆̎͝d̸̢̗̩̦͖͚̫̖̯̆̅̋̑͂̑̈̈́̃͆̚͠͠o̸̖͖͘ ̵̨̩̖̟͑̚͝ͅn̶̢̨̺̜̲͈̦̱̪͖̮̟̯͎̑̋͒̎̈̒̆͊̕͝ơ̸̧̥̟̹̟̣͈̖̥͉͈͇͔͛̌͑́̋͌͘̚͜͠t̴̛͎̭̦̟̀̽̽͗͑̈̐ͅ ̵̟̮̜͈̩̩̪̪̟̪̪̜̭͛͂̎̋͌̄͑̋̽̆͒͛͋̚̕w̶̨̖̠͇͖̽̅̑̏̅̆͌̃͌͝͝͝a̴̛̝̱͍̯͚͔̹͙͍͍̯̅̈́̂̓̊͑̈́͒̈̊̽̊̔͜͜͜ͅn̵̻̙͔͇̗͈̖͙͓͍̉́͑͌͂͊̌͋̉̾̎̒͠ţ̶̛̩̙̖͕̳̰͚͉̒̈́̐͐̂̒ ̶̡̡̣̦̗̻̞̐̀t̸̨̢̼̥̬̝̙̫̂͊̈̉̆͋̕̕͝͝ö̶͎̗̝͔̤̝́̄̔̉͊͐̚ ̴̛͕͇̹̗͓̦̐̐̌k̸̝͖͇͈̮̪͆̿̈́́͛͐̒͂͒͜͠n̴̙̤̩̤̭̭͋̇́̈́̍̇̈̎̊̚͘͜o̷̡̡͉̺̲͍̻͈̹̮̝͈̝̭͂̈́̒̂͐̑̔͛̈̊̋̒̕w̸̨͚͉̭͖̙͉̥̜͚̽͂̇͌̈̌̀̀͛͒̂̚͜ ̵̢̗̬̠̘̲̱̠͉̠̎͛̂̿̕͝f̵̡̦̝̩̦̫͖̪͈̤̅̈̀ỏ̵̙̥̩̤̥͚̘̜̀͐͊̕͝ͅͅr̶̨̢̛̘͍̯̣͇̮̺͕̼͆̊̍̄̂̈͛ ̴̡̨̞̰͍̜̯͚͇̊̒̈́͐͊͗̊̋̈́̅͊͗̚͘͜͜h̴̡̢͓̺̖̹̣̻̤͎̟̪͓͎̓̚͜͝ơ̸̬̣̺̼̯̓́̅͂͒̇̌͑̕͝w̷̬͓͔̖̉͋̌̓͗ ̴̲͉͍̺̓̓̆l̴̢͇̹̜̳͎̥͔̜̬̻̮̙͔̄̉͌͒̉͋o̴̢̧̭̲͔̦͙͙̻̺̣͗́͑͝n̷̨̖̣̖͉̫͉͍̦̜̼̖̐̀̏͠͝͝g̶̮͕̣̤͛͝ ̸̭̜̥̹̺̤͕̳̙̬̙̿͆͆̔̈́̂̈́s̵̤͙̭̳̝̗͙̘͑͠h̸͈̊̍͘e̸̻̝̱̩͈̱̘̹̮̖͔̒̆̽͐̎̈́̋̈́͐̂̐̆͘̚͠ ̶̨̛͇̝̪̝̘̈́̾͐̋ͅḩ̶̡͚̼̮̞̼̜͍̣̘͉̒͝a̷̡̨̨̺̞̖̰̯͈͖͍̳̚͠ṡ̸̢̢̡̧̩̮͕̼̫̻̠̻͂̈͐̐͝ ̷͎͙̻̯̲͎͚̳̬͔͋̂͂͒͐̔̔̈́̎̓̿̓̃͜b̴͍͍̥̼̞̫͈̰͕̣͈̅̂͌͜e̶̛̗͖̝͛̽̒̓̓̔͐͝e̷̞̦͍̼̱̲͐̆̕n̸̙̞̘̰̪͐̇̇̈́̆̓̐̋͆͘̕͝ ̸̦͙̰̺̬̜̯̠͌͘̕s̷͙̤͕̞̮̑̍͌̽͒͘̚̕͜͝͝͝u̷͕̩̼̱͌̄̔̂̍̋̈́̓̒̍̉̎͘ͅf̷̛͕̹̯̥͕̜̜̠̌̽͆͆͊̑̐f̵̛̰̥̈́͑̀͜ę̴̧̞̝͈̭̰͆̓̎̍̎̿̋͋̉͐́͘r̶̖̭̞̯̘̩͍̎͑̄̇̐͋̌̃̾͑̄͂̄i̵̡̡̧̞̞͔̠̝̝̹̦̔ņ̴̡̲͓̞̬̩͓̭̳̻̰̰̈́̇̋̈́̿͝ģ̸̛̛̠̝̠̞͙͈͙͔̪̫͙͕̤̭͛̅͐̏̉̏̈́͘̚̕͝.̷̡͖̳̳̀̈̍̀̃͗́̊̓̈́̕

H̶̡̛̝̮̝̲͋͌͋ȅ̷̛̝̩̖̞͗͊͂ ̴̢͕͔͉̹͙̙̫̘̲̌̇̃s̵̮̬̯̤͍͔̣͖͔̊̇͐̒͗̌ͅã̵̢͎̭͎͔͇̰̓̇̈́̔̑̂̍͘͝ͅy̶̧̧̢̨͎̯͍͖̞̘͎̲̮̻͖̓̎̽̎͂̍̓̍͐̚͠s̷̢̖̹̟͓̫͕̉̂̈́̿͊̾̈͗͝,̷̟͇̹̰̭̕ ̴̟̳̱́̄̇̾̈̂̊̎̑̈́̾̿“̷͚̖̞̣̺̖͍̰̭̭̙̤̦͊͂̓͐̑̐͋̆̽̂͒̚͜͝I̴̢͔̱̼̲̲̙̿ ̶̝̦͠d̷͉͖̫͖̙͍̦̞̩̩̙̘͈̔͑̿̅͂̉͒̽̔̋̇o̷̢̤̖̬̥̗͈̦̠̾͛̎͋̔̅̉͒͝͠ṋ̵̥̠̩̖̘̩̘̒͗̈́͑̉͐͑̿̅’̸̠̎̆̾̒̾̓͌̄̒t̶̨̨̲̳̖̟̤̤̟̱̼̦̉̇̋̐̊̿ ̵̛͎̜̳͖͔͂͌̃̅̑̋̇̐̌̊̅̉̄̍h̵̡̺̺͈̖͇͙̘͔̗͇̠͎̘̬͒̎́̈̓̕a̷̺̮̖͕̝̮͚͙͐̈̌̑̾̃̒̇̃͗͝v̴̡̧̧͈͓̻͔̞̞̝̙̣̜̰͖̓̇͌̔̿̀̿̾̔̂̈́e̸͍̐ ̴̞̟̓̽̊̂͑̾d̴̡̲͎̣̟̩̖̭̜͂̎̏̃͜ͅo̵̜͍̻̼̳͔͗̑̈́̇̍͐̐̇͋̋̾͜͝͝n̸̦͕͈̉͐̅̌͌̋̚͘̕͝ę̴̢̦̗̞̬̓̒̾̄͠ ̸̡͚̱̦͈̦̩̅̈́͌̋̈̆͆͂̇̒ä̸̡̘̯͈̖͖̉ͅņ̵̝̝̹̭̮͉͖̔̂̑̏͂̾̍̈́̄̈̅ÿ̴̧̡̢̛̙̥͇̱͚̬̰̦́̐͌̋̒̊͗̆̏̓̚ẗ̸́̇̔͊͗̏̚ͅh̸̲̣̣̪̣̳̱̘̳̑ǐ̵̧̡͇̦̥̣̍̅͆͒͌̾̆͋̎̚̚ņ̴͎̩̦̲̙̟̹͈̞͚̠̺̎͒͗͑̈́̔̈̿̋̍g̸̱̘͇͑̈́̈́̒̒̐̏̑̿̑̕,̷̫͙̞̦̯̥́̑͌̓̂̄͋͂̈̌̄͜ ̸̖̩̪͖̤͇̔̄̀̔̍̑̓̌͛̈́̿̌̓̓̈́s̸͇̤͖̻̞͉͖̞̬̘̳̭̓͜͝ͅi̵̡̛̛͉̜̠͖̦̯͎̐ṉ̸̨̢̬̭̱̣͍͕̮̉̓͜ͅc̷̨̨̬͙̻̲̗̦͙̗̏͋͗e̵͉̖̣̺̅͒̎̅͊̕͜ ̶͙̙̤̹̑̌͌̌w̷͇̘̔̉̈̑̀̎̊̌͆̕ȩ̸̜͓̻̋̓͛̓̎ ̷̧̡͚͖̳̘̩̫̠̰̦̞̟̑͊̃̈̄̐͛̈̽̚ͅh̶͚̠̤͕͕̠͙̉͗́̒̕̚͝͝͠͠a̷̧̡͎̙͚͍̓̋̈́̂̏̕v̸̗̳̪̱̦̩̹͖̀̊͊̔̌̅̈̾̄͝e̷̢̛̥̳͈̹̘̱͋͊̽̾ ̴̻̪͖̠̘͖̖͒̉͆͌̊̔͒͒m̷͓͂͛̉̇̓̈́͂̔̒́̓͠ȩ̷̢̮̦̦̦̦̳̝̞̲̇͌̂͗͒̋̈̓̊̈́̂̄̾͠͠t̸̯̰̼͒̈̾͛̅͋͒̈́͒͗͝,̴̘̗̭̝̘̻̦̦̲̺͇̮̝͑̽̂̕”̷̟̼̀̈́̓͆̈́̈́͘ ̶̢̠̲̞̍̂̎̀͒͜͠h̴̛̹̮̰̰͛̈́̐͌̓͑̎̇̂̊͑̑̎͝e̴͓̩͚͎̘͒̅̽̄̌̎̇̃̔́͝͝ ̴̛̙̱̜͇̻̤̺̓̿̊̃̂ͅs̵̛̠̻̾̌̔̑̈́̍̾̍̈́̈́̐̊̿͝ͅō̶̡̤͖̟̪̼͇̬͉̯̹̞̂̏͛͑͂̊͂̄͘͠ͅͅư̵̳͎̯̭͛n̵͓̣̞̠̮̰̳͚̜̉̓̌̿̈́̆̊d̶͓̺͕̬̣̹͙̰͇͈̄͑̌̐͒͊̂͂̊͘͝͝͠ş̵͓̙͊͆̈́͒̂́͂́͘̕͜͝͝͝ ̷̥͉̦̦̻̹̒̏̚ḁ̵̢̧̘̱̦̯͎̠̘̘̗̞̈͛̆́̋̈́̂̊̏̊͋͘͝ẅ̶͙͖͔̗͍̱̬́̊̇̾͐̃͒͛̚͝f̴̨̅͒̏͂̇̇͊̃̚͝u̷̘̤̬̅͌͂͋͗̈́͋̕l̸̩̯̜̗̝̥̹̺̫̫̭͖̓̽̾͑͒̾̓̓̑̂́̃̕ͅ.̶̡̢̟̝̫̠͖̓̉͆̿̈́͌̉̊͂͛̄́͠͠ͅ ̸̢̬̜̰̭͍̭̪͇̪͕̣͎͈͛͑͋̔̒̔Ĥ̷̨̻̠̰͕̣̱̭̥͙͙̖̪͆̔͋͆͊̈́̔̂̚͠e̶̤̩̓̃̃̇̽̍̐͠͝͝͝ ̶̙̜͎̦̟̮̏̒̅͗̆̕ͅͅͅŗ̵̱̯̔̈́͋̈̎͂̍͋̍͘͘ê̷̢̲̗̳͔̞̰̒̑̽͑̃̈́͋̎̕̕m̴̨̧̡̠̫͉̲͔̙̳̩̩̗̎̍̎͛̃͆͘͜͜ȏ̴̟͚̩͕̞̮̗͙̦̗̻͇̓̈̓͋͒́̈́͛v̷͙͚͉̭̇͋̋͌͊̎̇̐̈́͐͠ē̶̡͕̹̫̲̟͍͖̥̗͓̼̘̊̅͐̆̕s̷̛͇̤̻̼̣̮̘͌̃̾̊͑̾̈́̅͑̓̈̿͘ͅ ̶̢̛̰̟̞̗̬̦̮̮͙̘̻̿h̴͉̠̼̟̳͛̇̈́̈́̈́̔͒̚̕͠͝ï̵͔̼͙̯̦͚̜̑̈́̒́ͅs̸͕̰̲̲̥̭͚̟̰̹̔͑ ̷̢͖͙̺͚̜̦̻̮̌̆͊̈́͘ͅh̸̯̫͍͐͛ă̷̧̹͚̰̪̼͛̂̿̈́̍̋͗̈́̅̇͘͝n̷̪̦̼̦̹̻͔͖͇̯̬̩͗̄̾̽̇͊̾̑́̈̉̏͝ͅḑ̶̨͙̲͍͛́̍̋͗̊́̑͘͝ş̵̡̗̞̙̪͍̭̥̟̯͆̅̄̎̋̿͠͠ ̸̨͎̺̻͙̟̠͖̙͔̓͋͝à̷͕̲̖̜̜͔̱͖̜̹̻̪̦̹̑̉̇̍̋͒̽͐̋̓͜͠w̷̡̧̱̪̝̅̑̌͆̑̄̒͊̂͘͝a̸̛̤̙͙͙͍͉͓͉͕y̴̛͚̗̼͖͛̋̆̏͒̔͋̈̽ ̸̘̻͙̤̠̼͍̞̭̄́̓̅f̶͍͍̔̌̋̒̾̄͘r̴̡̩͕̘͕̼̀̈́͗̓͒̔̎͌̍̄͌̎̚̚ǫ̵̢̩͉̬̲͖̮͍̟̓̈́͆̃̄́́̑̿̊͘̕͝m̵̧̜̮̣̟̗̥͓͙̞̮̰̜̥͊̎̉̐͜͝ ̵͕̼̬̪͕̠̕m̴̧̥̻͖̑̅̄̃̒̂̈́̓̏̋̄̕ÿ̷̨̦̜̻̺́̇̽̄ͅ ̴̧̨̰̮̟͕̳͈͙̱̊̓̋̉͌̽́͘͘͝h̵̹̙̮̣a̴̡̟̗͎̩̥̫͚͇͈̖̹͎̲̋̉̈́͘͜ṇ̶͔͇̖̮̘̳̩́̆d̸̹̜̬͋̾̇̎̑̅̔̌̐͛̾̏̚.̶̡̡̼͖̣̜͓͓͈̝̓̍̇̃̾̃̒̏̐͊͑̑̕ ̷̳̞̰̯͕̙̭͎̥̟̪͍̎̄͂͛̀̂̌̉̽͊̈́͊̚͠

̷̘͇̓̏̋͛̓͂̆͊͐͌“̴̢͔͇̬̰͕̦̙̯̯̯̆͑̃̈́̃̆́̍̐̒̔͘I̵͉̭̦̥̫͖̘̠͑͒̌̌̿̒̃̂̚͠͝ͅ ̶̧̧͉̥̘̟̯̯̯̝̝̒͐͋̽͌̓̓̐̀̾̚͠͝ẃ̸̯̥̼͉̠̥͗͒͂͌̔̇̕̚͠ͅa̶̛̭̠͑̈̈͗n̵̛͍͎̪͉̙̞̭̖̼͇̬͙̥̗̾̓́̌̒͘̚͜ţ̷̭̯̰̪̯͕̪̗͉̪̹͑̂͜e̴͎͔͇͖̱̥̞̝̅̈́̉͗̾̒̑̕ḑ̷̧̺̪̘̯͙̼̗̤͈͒̃́͂̎͝ͅ ̵̛̱͔̂̄́͒̉̾̏̓̑͝ẗ̸̬̙̭̰̪̗͓͇́o̸̫͓̪̩̖͎͕̖̲̔͂́̑̎͊̀̉̂͋͒͘͘͜͝ͅ ̶̳̹̈͊̽͂͌͝s̵̢͎͔̣̘͕̯̲̃͆̅̊̓̐͊̚͘t̷̡̩̘̼̥͎͚̩̰̳̫̦̬̹͊̄̅̇̎͆̈͌͗̓̔̕̚͝ȧ̴̢̨̨̱̳̻̝̜͉͓͚̳͜r̵̰͈͍͕̊̅͋̆̑̔̐̊̀͗́̚̕͝t̵̡̨̺̞̪̯̗̠̖͚̥̝̤̞͂̽̓͑͗̊̚͘͝ͅ ̸͔̝͓̗̻͔̰͋̋̾̾̅͝a̴̬͑͋̑͠ ̷͎̲̠̬͇̠͚̬̗̞̑͜n̶̢̨͖͉̟̥̱̟̪̤̖̟̝̮̈e̷̲͍̱̻̗̣̻͈̦̣͍̰̥͋̂̑̈̿̀̂͗̐̏̈͐͋͘̚w̴̜̤͓̬͎̣̠̻̰̿̈́͌̔̆̈́͛͝ ̴̡̥̭̹͕̱͕̜̻͈̾̇̚ͅl̸̡̢̛̛̜̩͔̺̯͉̟̞̘͈̈͒̈́͒̎̐̎͘̕̚͠͝i̴̧͓̬̜̯̰͌̈́͛̾̈́f̵̧̟̭̪̮̯̖͓̮̤̳͚̞́̒̊̇̍̃̕̚͝ͅe̸̢͓̟͎̮̻̻͈̪̱̓̀͛̈̍̉͂͋̔̍̿̚͝͠͠.̴̤̞͖͚̮̪͔̼̲̭̓͗͑͗̾͂̅ ̶̢̢̛̞̭̤͇̜̘̠̪̤͆̄̽̓̈́͆̇̓͋̆̏̚̚̕͜Ḯ̷̗ ̶̟̎̀̔̂̊͊́̃i̷̢̧̖̜͚͉̭̣̜̙̹̱͉͊͛̏̓̽̕̕͠ͅn̷̋̾̒͋̋̈́̈́̾̐͜͠͝ţ̷̛̭̠͖̗͇̍̈́̽̉̈́̿͘͠͠ŗ̴͓̤̰̞̦͑̈́͊̃̒͆̓̂̚͘͜ͅo̴̲̮̅̊͆͛̈́̐́̿̆̿̔͌̚d̶̢̡̧̼̥̲͉͍̭̣͈̦̜͂͘ủ̸̡̢͖̪͎̣̻̞̥͉̬̙͚̞̂̾̔̍̈̒̈́̀̈́́̕͠͠c̶̛͕̈́̅̃͗̏͗͗e̸̢̟͙̜͕̼͖͖͔̹͛͒͒̈́͌͘ḑ̵͚̤̠̤̬̠̞͍̺̺̻̬͊̿͝ ̸̡̨̧̧̬͉̹̭̥͕̟̭͉̹̫͌͒̐͒̄̈́̇ṁ̶̡̡̢͖̗̙̙̝͕͚̍̃̄ÿ̷̢̯͈̮̬̖̙̗̪̜̝̖̦́͗̽̅̇̎̓ṡ̴̤̲͓̟͕͎̃̈͆̎̓̾͜͠é̷̗͉͙̦̳̙̰̦͔̓̎̆̐͐̈́̌͆͘̚̕ͅl̶̛̩͚̗̱͓̼̞̦̮̈͊͌̑̑͒͑͆͘f̵̥̤̉̂̓̀ ̷͗̇̊͠ͅa̸̟̤̞͉̍͆͊̃̍͠͝s̸̭̮̥̩͚̗̟̖̤͍̺͓͙̟͓͐̓̒̊͌͂͒̃̓͊̈́͐͒̄̆ ̵̛͎̏̓͋̑̍̆͑̂̓̏͊̚̕E̶̢̞̩̼̍̓̿̄̌̐͝ṟ̷̨̽͝i̵̧̛͓͕͈̟̗͓̱͈͍̙̲̗͍͒̏͆͊͂͗́͆̚ͅc̸̡̨̳͇̬̫̲̓̿̉̂͛́̎̒͒̂̀̋̊̌̚ͅ,̴̨͓͕̰͔̺̟̣͕̎̄͜ ̸͓̲͎̫̂͐̄̑͑̍͊̂̚͝b̷͓͕̼̪̻̙̯̞̤͑͛̔͐̉̃̔̎͌̔͝͝ͅe̴̡̡̥̣̞̠̻̟̜̬̩̰̠̲͗̃͌̎̎͘̕͜͠c̴̨̨̯̞͔̰̮͉̗̘̣̈́͌͊̽̿͌̑̌̓̉͑͆̎ͅa̴̧͖͖̘̝̖̤̪̭͖̾͜ͅừ̸̯̦̺̲̥̱̟̗͙̖̥̠͚̙̎̆͊̉̀̌͗̈́̑́̅͝ś̷̗͙̭͂̅́̈̋̂̾̚ę̶̢̼͎̝̀͒̿̇̊ ̶̨͇̙͚̝̬̻̖̮̲̙͙̈́̿̀͛͋̉͌͜ͅͅI̸̧̻̗̠̱̟͓̻̱̣̫̔̈̔̍̍̂̋͜͝͠ͅ ̸̦̈́͐̓̏w̷̡̡̛͉̜͙̳̓̆̀̈́́͂̍̊̅͆͊̈́͝a̴̖̹͂͊́̊̍n̷̟̭̤͎͕̹̭͔̤̤̻̜̤͖͗̈́̾̉̈͌̀̈́̽̆͒͐̄͝ṫ̵̡̧̛̫̹̗͍͈̤͓̥̼̯̳͖͒̃̿̈́̌͂̕͜͝ ̷̨͎̲͇̼̜̗̬̤͙͙͍̳͂̅̉̈́̕͝t̶̺̀̔̈͆̌͛̈́̔͆̃̊̚o̸̹̲̗͍̻̅̉͊͌̕̕ ̷̧̧̥̙̖̙̻̬̭̯̟̓̓̃̋͒́̏̅͆̊͝f̵̛̲̯̼̼̃͛͘͝o̶̡͚͍̦͈̬̲̭̪͉̘̹̻̊͊̾͊͛̒̈́͘̕͜ŗ̴̡̨̮̮̭̭͙̹̻̪̖̙̣̩̉̐͑̔̒̑̊͐͊̑̔͊̋͠g̴͓̹̽̈́̈́̓̿e̶̢͉̘̪̬͙̳̹̩͓̤͚̅́̿̓̾͌̒̾͘ẗ̶̢̟̦̦̭̝́̄̀̇̇̉͑͠͝ ̴̢͓̟̖̬̏̾̌͑̐̆͜͠͝m̶̡̯̟͙̩̐̈́͒̓͐̀ỹ̸̧̼̈́͌̇̑̂̂̍̅̑͠s̸̢̫̘͉̙̟͖̮͕͚̿̎͜ȩ̴͈̬̖͓͔̱̮̼̖͖̘̜̑̆̇̾͂͒̑̔̾̍̓l̴̢͕̠̪̥͈̻̞̤̠͓̚͜͝ͅf̴̡͍̪̙̱͌͂̊͆̐́͠.̶̟̙̹̲̘̭͖̤̤͓̪̊̉͛̌̏̑̾͝ ̸̛͓̹̝̩͕͖̗̰͍̣̞̫̠̋̽̔̈̆̆̕M̷̨͈͍̜̮̱͓͍̻̮͌͂̍̑̉̈̐̑͂̽̿̿r̸̺͖̻̗̜̮̣̯͓͉͙̰̾̋͗̑͒́̅͜͜s̷̞̹͓͕̩̦̥̯̻͊͋.̵̧͉̹̗͈̲̤͂̈̏͒̐̊̚͜ ̵̡̼̦̣̞̞̩̩̲͙͓̫̼͇̑̌́̊̍͗͒̃̎͆̉̋̐̚͘Ḩ̸̦̜̪̙̭̒̈o̷͉͕̿̈́͂̐̋̋̓͐͛̌͐͘i̴͚̙̽͑̏̈́̓͌͐͐͠d̴͙̮̪̭̮͈̹̻̭̏̂͛̎̚͝ą̸̧̢̬͓̯̭̦̞͚̻͎̮̪̞̄̌̒̀̊͋͝ ̶̢͖̪̭̩̹̦̤̬̙̜͔̜͙̅͑͊́̃̍i̵͇̗͙͖͓͔̐͑n̷̡̢͇͔̲̭̮͓͍̗̘̟̊͆̈́̆͗̂͒ͅs̵͉͈̩͖͕͉̰̀̆͜͝i̸̦̝͔͍̙͝s̶̢͎͖̹̦̪̼͎̘͍̲͎̺͊̔̀̿̑̌̿͂͌͂̕̕͜ͅt̶̜̲̙͙͈͊͜ͅę̸̤̘̗́̂̚ḋ̵̡͈̻͙̺̹̦̠̜͈̓̓͜ ̴̢̛̥̯̘̪̣̇͆̾̂̀͂͘͠͠ͅọ̶̟̬̙̘̖̟̲̯͑̎̉͐͒̏͑̍̈͑͜͜͝n̵̮͉̣̫͓͇̩͔̮̻̗͕̺̯̈́̒̎͐̄͛̿̊̒̓̄͘̕͠ ̷̥̻̅̊̄̾̈́͒m̸̨̮̥͉̯̜͔̟̼̓͋̒̂̈́͒͑̾͐̕͘͜ȳ̷̻̍̕ ̴̡̤̘̻̗̝̊̆̊͛̈̒̍̔̑̊̏̅̋͜n̶̨̛̺͈̮̦̣̱͔̳̱͓̖͉͍͑̓̎̑̀͜͝͠ȍ̵͙̱̠̙̻̰̹̖̺͎̟̪̱̞̎̿͛͊̈̈́͑͂̈́̈ͅṛ̵̡̯͎̰͕̮̦͔̺̩̦̲̓̊̏̄̆̀̿͋͐̕͝ͅͅm̴̢̗̻̪̙̣̰̦̮͂͋̀͑̍͂̌̎̔̇̒̕̕͝ą̶̢̧͇̯̩͎̯̱̲̦͆̓͒͋̉̓͗l̷̢̛͓̳̜̜̳̝̼͉̪̺̬̞̗̞̓̆̈́̄̋̍̅ ̶̧̭̙͉̣̊̐̊̑͆̋͝f̶̢̨̢̧̡̢͈̯̝̙̲̈́̍̋͜i̶̲̖̱̖̝̿̌̈͛̾̾̌̆͛͂̆̆ͅr̵͙͕̦̩̈s̶̫͈̯͎͉̯̳͖͋ͅͅţ̴̨̧̩̪͔̗͖̞͔͈͖͚̬̉͆̆̇̆̈́̊̏͑ͅ ̵̪͇̠̺̓̔̓n̵̨̬̲̤̾̿̎̄̀͆̔̐͂͗̐̂̕͠a̶̡͉͈̠̖̲̺̦̗͗̇̓͐͜͜m̷̰͖͙̣͓̈́̉̋̽̏͌͗̈́̚͝͝͝͝ë̶̻̅͌̒̌͒͘,̸̘̺̦͖̰̣̞̫̭̙̩̪͉̓̉̓͒͊̂̌͊̕̚͝͠͠”̷̢̢̖͇̭̱͖͔̬͍̞̭̻̲̲̽͗̓̏̅̌̈́̈́͘͝ ̵̰̌͂͋͌͗̃h̷̘̩͇̬̥̥̭̃e̴̪̞͕̬͓͖̬̠̰̝̣͓̠̱̊̉͒̽͒̃͊͛̌͗̈̚ ̷͓̯̻͎͛͌̑̓͂̊̈́̈́͛̈́̽̚͝ę̶̧͙͚̺̭͖̰̱̄̉̓̐͗͒̄́̇͆̀̓͛͘͜͝x̶͚̭̭͉͚̘̙͎͒p̵̜̱̹̯̅͜ľ̴͍̫̖͎̟̭̺̼͕̒̇̑̇͒͘͠a̸̙͍̼̝̼͎͇̦̹͎̔̿͂̔͗̄̄͘͝͠į̴̢̹̤͕̯̀̌̈͘͝n̷̡̡̹̰͓̫̳͍̗̭̞͎͙͙̽̅͆̅̈͑̎̑ś̵̡̡̨̖̳̠͙̻͔͉̦̤́.̵̯̱̉͊ ̶͔͓̜͇̙̠̄̌̎͗̆̌͒̚͜͠͝ͅT̵̜̥̱̬̹̯͖̞͓̞̠̥̟͉͊̈͂̅͋̎͋̑̔̑̔͘͝ö̸̧̢̠͔͉̬̰͙̙͇̩͓̱́̎̔̕͘o̵͇̣̎̓͑̉͝k̸̢̰̟̩̝̭̻͍͇̪̓͛̒ ̷̢̧̡̻͍̳̤̟̩̻̤͗̈̇̈́͌͐̔͒͘̚ͅẖ̴̢̞̘͕̜̤̮͇̭͑̓̂̃̑̀̃̌̍̿̉͆͗͝͠ỉ̶̛̼͙͊̄̅͗͋͒̌͛̋m̴͍͗̈́́̇̎̃͝͠ ̴̘̰̰͕̤͉͎̮͉̯̄͂͂́̿ͅf̵̡̜̦̬̜̤̟̤͒̕ơ̶̹̥̥̱̣̅̂̉ŗ̸̧̛͈̫̗͎̙̪̱̦̺͎̱͑̐̎͒̏̊̐̊̋̈͗̕̚͜͠e̶̢̢̡̛̪͕̟̹͇̜̊̎̒͐̂̓v̴̨̹̹̠̯͉̪̼̖͎̟̊̕ë̸͇̙̮͎̻͓̳͉͕́ͅr̸̩̋̉̃̆̌̊͐͑̎͌̔͊̕,̵̨̗̜͍̺͙͔͆̕ ̸̳͇̤͎͙̭͚̰̳̫̇̽̆̐̃̓̏͋͒̆̀̈́̉͠b̷͕̻̘̫̹̦́̉́̅̄̄̓̆̋͌̚ͅu̸̧̱̻̣̱̖͔̺͍͕̽̀̋͂͋̉t̷̢̧̛̝̦̪͎̹̬̩͖̹̲̘̠̖̾̾̽̕̚͠ ̴͎̲̞̲̃͋͗͆́͂̈́̒̌̽Ḭ̶̻̦̗̝̣̺̎̾̃́̋͗̈̒̄̏̋͗͋̕͜͠ ̸̬̺̜̘͚̼͑̅̐͝k̷̙̟̭͍̰̮̪̯̥̣̒͊͛̄̑̿̋̈͝n̴̹̳̿̑͊͌͌́̅͌o̷̲͇̮̟͓̰̒͆ẁ̵̢̛͎̠͎͖̗̻̖̪͉̰͈͖͓̯̈ ̸̛̛̮͓̩͖̝̈́͒w̸̯̩̥̝̰̟̭͖͙̑͊̌͋̍̌̍̈́̀̉̔̿̃h̵͙̪͎̱̤̞͂͒̎̌͑̒̌͗̈́̈́a̴̧͖̜̲̙͖̞͇͉͇̤̅ṭ̸̡̛̼̲̆̑̑͘͘͝ ̶̭͙̖̔̾͌͊͛̈̔h̸̡̛͚̦̩͕̫͆̒͌e̴̢̻̲̻͚̊̄̈́̄̌̈́͗̚͝ ̸̡̛̭̹͑̈́̽͗̄̈́̆̄̇̐̕͘͜͜m̶̥̝̟͎̟̿͜ē̷̢̘̣̫̲͙̯̱̙̞̺͓̲͔̃ą̸̨̟̯̖̭̭̠̎̐̾͛̄̍̈́̆͑̿͘͜ṉ̸̨̝͎̺̮͍̣̰͓͗̀́͘͠ͅs̴̝̝͚̻͔̳̬̉̈́̅.̶̢̡͍̜͙̩͚̱̩̩̰̘͔̫̩́̊̌͗̍̉̀̋̅̚ ̷̨̳͚̯̙̖͔͉̮͚̯̘̬̀̈́̈́̒̕“̴̡̡̛͎̖̹̻͎̠̻̫̟͚̖͑̕B̶̢̡̩̝̩̩̠̟̳̙̈́̓̒̌͗̏̿̀̏͜͝ȗ̴̜̪̯̳͓͇̣̰̲̼̤̖̻͋̿̉̀̉ͅț̸̹͕̫͉̺̫̣̲̿̏̈́͆͑͘͜ ̸̨̢̡̝̟̬̝̭͓̞͑́̌̊̃̒̔̿̀͗̈́͜ͅy̵̗͕̯̬͔̙̓͗͗̍͗̑͛̊ǫ̷̛̍̓͐͂̅͛͒̋̃ͅũ̸͈̩̻̬͓̤͚̙̰̜̠̦̭̙̻̆̓̄̇̏̃̅̅͌̚̕ ̸̡̽̅̔̐̓͘ḩ̷̘̹͈̠̇͂͒̚ā̸̢͙͓͖̜̲͖͙̞̎̆͐̎̓̈́̔̀̅̈́͂̕͠v̶̫̠̱̣̥̤̊̈͂̌̀̈́̅͘̚͜͝ę̷̯̭̺͑͂̌͒̍̈́͘̕ń̶̰͓̻͙͚̭͙̭͍͕̯͈͇’̶̡̛͙͍͙̆̓̈́͋̒ͅṭ̶͍̑͒̌̄͌ ̶̛͖̩̰̻̹͓͎̬̂͐̀̍̑͛̒̉̽͒͌͜s̴̛̼̘͂̔̈́̆̂͂͗̇̀̕̕ą̵̈̋̔̌̍i̷̡̱̱̺̬̮̩͓̬̫̒ͅd̶̨͓̱̘̻͍̖̍̇̔͒̊͐̊͑̓͌̈́̈̐̒̕ ̶̲̝̥͉̱̭̈̓̚͘ą̶̢̢̡͔̤͖̖̪̻͓̀̓̐̃̈̃͌̒̓͘͠͠ ̴̢̛̜̺̮̟͖͍͉͈̺͈̹͙̪̔̾̓̇̏͜ẘ̸̢̅̿̂̏̾̏̐͆͛͌͝͝͝͝ͅǫ̴̠̗̥͎̏̈́̍͗̈̋̊͋͌͘̚͝r̵̭̙͉̣̝̱̬͈͓̲̻̬̳̄̚̚̕d̶͚͎̬̹̹̟̮̗̤͌̊͗ ̶̠̺͖͎͙̬̤̣̜̠͒͌͑̈͆̋̿̀̆̄̕̕͝ͅf̴̯͚̙̟̦̬̦͍̖̞̒͗̔͘̕͝͝ơ̶̢̧̙̘̤͔͈̙̦̓̍̋̅̆̎̽̚͠͝r̶̰̼̺̻̲̹͍̙̥̩̂̿̅̍̈́͂͜ ̷̞̫̫̣̠̭͇͙͖̳͙͈̎͊̾̽͌͘͜͠a̵̧͚͚͔̺̲̮̜̘̳̹̪͐́̋͗ͅl̶̠͚͖̆̓̃̈́̋̃̂͛̒̊͒̀̓͒m̶̡̭̳̼̗̘͋̐o̵̡̠̜̟̰͙͚̯̞̲̗̭͋̓͑͌̂̌͑̊̽̂͜s̷̘͚͍̠̯̼̯̰͉͍̩̈́͆͒͊̊̆̕ţ̸̨̻̮̦̲̟̭͙̙͉̲̰̩͆̇̏̿̔͊̄̐͑̕ ̵̛̯́͊̆̽̄̈́̿̓͆̆̈͗͝ȃ̶̙̰̓̕͘n̴̡̨͎̻̙̤̝̲͐̀͛̏͂̂ ̸̡͈͉̘̼̘͂̐̈̑̈̀̀͘h̷̛̛̗̯̦̅͗͛̈͒̑̄̕̕ǒ̸̞̺̲̀̽͒͐̋̄̕͠u̶̢̨̱͖̖̫͇̖̗̳͖͐̀̈́̋́r̵̛͔̮͈̯̍̉̈̿̈́̅͊͆͋̑͘͝͠͝,̴̡̘̹͓̮̱̜̣̣͈̟͆͛͒̓̅̌ͅ”̸̨͖̼͓̯̼̻̝̫̳̿͛̎̋̃͐͌̌͝͝ ̸̛̥̳̫͐̆͊͊̈͋̔̇̚͜͝͝͝h̴̩̭̫͈̜̫͊̐̇͋̌̃̒̄͑͝͝ͅe̵̡̢̫̩̼̮̩̠̋ ̷̡̤̬͔̯̻͖̎̇̃͆̓̈́͌̐̈́̇̾͜ş̸̠̼̪͓͉̩͙͖̖̔̊ḩ̸̛̮̤̞͖̂̅̊̒͒͠ă̸̡͙̹̤͈̘̪̦͊̽͊̾̾͛̽͂k̵̢̫̳̯̟͓̙̭̰̖̂͊̌̔̚͜͝͝e̶͓̜̩͙̘̅ş̶̘̘̣̮͎̩͎̼̮̖͚ ̷̥̈́͛͊͂̎̎̈́͋̓͐̕͝͝o̸̮̥͇̟͇̭̅̔̉̾͗̏̽̒̈͋̎̐̃n̶̡͓̜̝͓͎͔̮̹̫͕̒̉̌̑͋̑̂̌́͛̾̕̚̕͠ͅ ̸̛̻̹̦̖͍̹̞̑͊̈́̕h̸̲̭̬̥̳̼̻͉̞̭͂̈ͅͅi̶̞̊͗̌̆̍̊̿̚ŝ̸̡̢̛̺̙̞̼̤̝̥̜̲͙̪̻͐͝ ̶̛͈͕̉͂̈́̈́̓̊͗̑̈͒͜͠͠e̵̯̪̭͙̦͇͙̙̠̪̮̮͂͒͂͛͋̅̚ͅn̷̰̼̯͈̄͌̓̆̇̇̾́t̷͕̻̆̈́̈́͋͝ͅį̵̭̙͔̦͓̪̮̩̞̒͑͂͜r̷̬̫̬̦̜̬̬͎͍̍̓̄̽͛͛͌̀̀͠e̵͖̘̦͒͂̀̒ ̵̡̛̳̞̲̭̠̳̞͓̹̗̬̭̳̠͋̀̍̓̑̓̾̈́̑͆́͘ḃ̴̡̭̤̱̩̝̞̙̆́̈́̅́͂̒͊̕͝͝ô̴̲̺͍̟͔͉̘̯̫̔̇̀̉̄͆̚͜͝d̴̢̛̦̺̟̗̟̤̼̻͖̠̬̞̐͛͊͐̄̏̍̾͗͘ẏ̵̙̥̮̱̳͚̜̟̝̬͙̮̰͕̻̄̓̋̏̍͂͊̚̚͝.̶͓̖́̓̇̒̌̌̄͝ ̶̼̞͑̍͂̿̃̃̑̕̚͝I̵̢̢̟̫̙̺̬͎͔͕̰̙̱͑̅̄̾͂͂̈̿̋̔͋͘ ̶̨̺̗̜̼̗̼̳̾͆̽̾̉̐̕ͅͅf̴̡̢̝̰̆͑̇͐͒̿̈̓̐̽̈͂ͅę̸̼͖͇̠̞̯̫̭̜̟͈̭̔̄́͐͆̈́̔̐̂͑̈̚͜ͅe̶̟̼͎̣̱͚͕͉̘͍̞̎̔̚ļ̷͉̠̏̓̀͠͝ ̶̫̖͑̑̈͂ţ̷̧̡̲̞̦͕͎̙͖̼̬͓̝͊̅̄͑̊̋͐̿͝į̸̧̡̱̱̠̩̫̩̳̝̅͒̿̈̾̅̂̚r̶͖͆͌̎̾̒͝͝ȩ̷̠̬͇̄̏̄͒͌̃̀̑d̶̻͍̟̣̫͔̖͔̟̟̓̐̆͂̈́̾͘̚n̴̬̰̖̭̝̠̞͜͠ͅë̶̢͚̞̖̰͈̙̖́̿̈̒̔̂̒͌͌̍̒̇̚͜͠s̵̭̳̠̭͓͓̘̣͔̜̯͎̟̳̄̒̑̓̈̓̾̈̋͋͂͝͝ͅs̷̯̙͔͓̥͙̰̐͐͆̔͆̈́ ̵̨̡̛̭͙̗̱͓̝̺̻̦̩̙͎͈̿͑g̶̡͖͊̾̓̓̚̚͝͝ę̸̡͍̙͙͕͚̤̬̝͚̫͌̅͌͑̇̋͆͑t̴̢̺͚̬̲̓̍͛̀̊͝ţ̸̖͓̹̫͚̠̞̳̘͔̣̔̌̓̅͜ï̶̬̞̳̙̭̪̖͑̈́̈́̔̎̓̀̈́͂̇͜͠͝ņ̵͈̤̣͎͍̪̠̯̹̦̟̖͙̂̇̐̈́̂̉̍̿̆͐͝g̴͚͌̔̿̃͑̀̋͑̽͛̊̈́͝͠ ̷̝̒̀͛̏̆̓̈͋̆̓̃͜͝t̸̛̥̻̦͎̭̰͍̘͖̤̗̪̩͈̊̄͐̇͊̈̂͝h̶͖̙̻̞̯̻̪̳̐̂̆͗̅͗̂̇̊̃̊͝e̴̛͚͍̗̬̮̦̯̠͌̓̋͛̒͘̕͝ ̵̩͙̣̟̬̙̩͙̟̱̭̬̮̇̔̿̋ͅu̷̢̨͈̙̦̻͂̄̈̔́̚͠ͅp̷̢̡̹͎̘̹͙̩̘̱̋̌̈́̿͆͛̕p̴̨̢̧̩̺̜͙̝͚̤͉̩̀̏ͅȩ̸͈̰̟̹̝̻̳͗̃̋̈́̇͋͛r̵̦̺̂̍̀ ̴̲̣͔̝̺̤̝͕̺̯͉̙̹͒͗̆̕͜h̸̡̛̭̤͖̜̳̭͔͍͉͐͌̈̆͊ā̷̢̳̻͒̓̉̈́͌̓̈́̈́͌̏̈́͝͝n̴̳̻̹̈́d̵̬̂̇̃̽̓̈́̀̽̃̿̋̅͆̋ ̴̙̮̪̤̬̝̓̒̋͛̆̀̅̕͜͝ͅi̸̞̬̔̐̎̑n̵̛͎͙̣͋̍̌ ̴̢̺͖̂̅̉̍̈͌́̉̑̉̚̕͝͝m̷̙͎͖͚͖̓͂͒͂̈́̉̓̅̓͛̓̍͘y̶̢̦̠̣̔̕ ̸̭͎̘̼̒̉̉̈͊͌͑̇͛̎̄̈́̎͘ḫ̶̰̙͈̖̊́̾͆̆͌͊̎̊̏̇̑̈́͝e̸̛̠̰̦̯̼͍̞̓̐̏ą̴͈̹̳̗̩̖̦̟̤̤̝͙̟͔͊̿͊̈́̾̈́d̸̺̺̙̣̙̫͑͂̈̿̀͐͛͑͑͌̈́͘ͅ.̸̡̛̥̱͕̩̪̣̤̠̆͐̓̽̿̂̓̈́͆́̏͝ ̸̛̯̜̩̞̹͙͎͍̳͙͆̉͂͐̍͆͊̋̈́

̶͖͎̲̗͙̱̘͚̤̥̥̈͂̽̊N̴̨͇̩̦̰͖͌o̶̤͖͍̜͖͂ẁ̷̧͖̼̻͕̖̈͊̋̉̂,̶̡̩̪̙͙̫̗͛͠ ̶̲͌̒̽̎̌̏̈̕̕͠͝t̷̰͚͓̘̏͗͜h̶̢̺̫̜̱̳̼̼̺̺̮̤̑̃̃͒͋̑̃̇̍̕͝͝ͅȩ̷̖͚̫͇̠̼̭̬̯̝̫͖̈̾͗̌̀͌̇͘͝ͅr̷̛̮̓̂̐̐͑̉̌̋̍̎̏͑͝͝e̸̘͇̽͒ ̵̨͙̼̭͕̫̋͛̓͆̿̓͒͋̒̿̓͌̚a̴̘̹̖̯̘̘͓͇̳͎̜̰̎̉̽͜r̸̫͙̘̣̽̀̂ẽ̷̼͍͉̤̳̦̐͂͊̈̚͝ ̶̙̞͛͐̾͝t̸̹̭̻̞͙͈͉̪̥͔̱̯͆̓̐͊̀̐r̴̺͓̼͎̫̳̓͐̄́͑̍̐͗̒͑̓͠i̶̧̢̳̤͔̽̒͑l̷͔͓͖̪̪͕͉̯̀́͊͐̌̍̽̾̍̎͑̈́̈́̿͠ͅl̸̰͉͕̲̪̽̔̀͂i̴͔̞̻͎̙͖͌̎̊̋̒͌͆̎̒̕͝ͅõ̵͍̮̖̅͑͌̔̔n̶̜̟̏͆͊s̶̡̧̡̪̱̖̰̳̭͈̺̰̪̱̥̈́̽̅͆͂̈́̕ ̵̢̮̱̳͗͒͒̆͝ơ̴͕̣̦͚͕̹̩͍̰̬͚̠̗͎͚͒̊̔͂͒̈́́̅f̸̉̃̎̅͊ͅ ̶̢̺̻͎͎̠̫͔̺̟̃͑i̴̛̗̽͋̏̿̽̅̅n̴̨͎̰̮͉͙̖̩̯̰͎̠͊̉̔͑́̒͗̕t̴̛̛̓̈̐͒̍͆̌̂̈́̇̾͠ͅë̸̢͔͇̦̞̳̫̱͔̒̅̓͜͜r̶̢̛̞͔̠̟̥̹͉͕̝̊̇͌͐̄̋̓̒͂͆̔̚͠c̶̪͖̾̽͌̒͆̓̓͝o̶̲͑̀͂͑͐̓̆̔͝n̸̦̲̹̼̥̋̑̄̑̌͛͆͘n̸̮̭̮͔̞͓̒͊͜e̶̘̩͔̝̳̲̱͔̯̮̣̟͙̤̲̓̿̑̔̀͠c̵̰̱͖̺̻̄̎̐͆͋̈́͐̌̚t̴̞͚̲̭̞̼̲͎̼̩͕͉̙͍̠͗̒̇̋̋̑́͠ë̸̻͉͎͖̪̻̲̘̄̄̾̔̔̚͘͝d̷̢̞͎̣̦͙̺̮̤͎͙͚̺̘̋̀̓̈́͌͗̐̃̏͗̈́̅̆̏̕ ̵̧̢͗̏̄͋͆͋͑̂́̾̕͝a̷͚̰̓̈́̑̒̋͆̓͂̏́͘͜c̶̡̢͈͚͍̰͇͕͉̺̘̠̪̍̔̒̈́̄t̶̗̘̯͉̒͝ḯ̶̢̡̝̝͎̱͖̠͍͉̺̺͆o̴̧̨̩̱͔̻͖̩̲̱͐̈́̔͋͜ṋ̶̛͓͕͈̪̫̞̫̍͂̎͐s̷̳̥̦̩͕͎͇̰̏̈́̏̈́̂͐̅̋ͅ ̴̝́̍̏̒̽̔̈͑̾t̵̬̬̩͓̻̹̤̰̤̹̀͛̔̀̌͐̆͊̐̚͜͝ḩ̵̛͈͈̼͔̮̙̳͕̟͓̈́͗͛̏̌̅̀͒̑̆͜a̵͙̋̓͊̏͜͝t̶̘̼̪̥̻̓̾̽̑͒̀́͊̓̍̂͑͜ ̷̨̻̺͎̼̹̻͔̼͚̪̮̈́Į̵̡̛͎̞̹̉̂̓͗͊͜͜ ̴̡̨̢̥̺̙̫͉̪̙͛͑͜ͅh̶̨̧̰̳̖̤̘̮͈͖̞a̸̡̛̮̼͎̠͇͇̹̲̍̄̒̿̉̃̓̃̂͝v̸͓̤̠̬̈́̏͜e̴͇̹͕̮͕̯͗͗͛̏̿̀̎̾̍͜͠ ̶̢̫̘̻̭͇̞̩̻̘̪͙̅̕͜ͅṯ̸̤̫͈̍͒o̷̳͉͇̓́̈̅̀̋̀̔͠͝͠ ̸̛͕̞̯̹̖̭̽̒͜͝ͅf̷̧͙͙̯̱͇̖̱͉̬̅͜ͅu̶̖͉̥̻͍̣͖̠̝͉͉͊̈́͜͝l̸̛̖̲͍͖̄̔͋͒̑̒̒̀̒̅̔̾̐f̵̨̖͔͎̩̼̪̲̦̝̥̔͗͛͐̑̍̍̊̂͌͝i̷̛̫̹̞̲̗̱͖̜̓̈̆l̵̢̰̟̺͍̤͔͎̠̝̪̔̂̇̂̂͌̆̉̍̈͜ͅͅͅl̷̡̩̥̮̳͚̼͙̜̮̦̻̒̓̃͆̆͌͊̔̎̈́̾͠.̵̧̨̨̲̭̻̼̮͖̱͊́̈́ ̷̪̗̟͋́L̵͈̹͖̥͎͕̪͕̖̯͕̠̼̃̄̐̏͛̾̇̍̚͜ễ̵̡̘̠͂̋͘t̵̪̟̠͍̺̜̗͌̈́͗̅͋̈́͛͆̂̈̈́̕͜ ̴̢̨̭̘̘̠̖̭̮̰̜̄̑͂̓̈́̾͜͝ḙ̵̤̻̩̦̗̞͍͈̻̯̿̈́͆͐̍̿͘͠v̶̡̧̻̺͍̫̝͈͚͙̹̲̝͎̓͛̽̌e̵͚̔̓̋͑͗̈́͝r̷̡̟̹͖̪͉̤̗͇̙̙̈͗̏̾͋̇̕͘͝͝͝y̸̨͈͕̟̗̺͖̯̆̓̊͋͆͛̒̿̽̚͘ͅb̷̢̛̻̳̯̱̱̦͇̝͍̪̲̗͚̎̔̊̉͝o̵̦̭̬͖̯͓̐ḓ̵̹̏͘ÿ̸̨̨͉̟̺̼̭̹͔̳́̈́̊̒̉͗̒̄̒̃̐͒̚͝͝ ̴̨̨̛͈̦͔̜̳̝̼̩̘͚̯͚̞̏̿̿̈́̌̓͛̾̍̈͆̚̚s̶͔̼̤̞͙̺͍̯͇̤̈́̂͒̍͋͘ͅú̵̪̰̿̈̍̿͊̇̿̈́f̷̛̳̰̘͕̂̃̃̈́̈́̔͌͜f̵̹̍̇̊̌͊͐̔̌͆̊͂̇͒͘ȩ̴̨̯͉͈͔̝̳̳͖̻̼̯͚̒r̸̩͂͂͌̀͛͆̾͐̿͗͘ ̸̝͈͔͙̙̤͖̯͍̪̋̾̈́̂̃̈́̾͝a̵͍̺͔̤̔̿̒͐̅n̸̢͎̜̺̮̪͔͇̗̼̯̦͕̝̭̽͋̾ḑ̵̡̨̧̛̟̦͕̪̩̝̪̖̖̲̥̇̊̈́̆͗̈́́ ̴̳̻̯̈́͑m̴͎̺̫͖͚̱͕̦̭̰̋̆́̂͂̈͋̍̈ą̷͍̖͚̼͚̹͉̏̓̀k̵̳͇̖̞̗͎͐̈́̐̊e̶̲͂͛͌̿̈̍̿̔̃̕̚̚ ̵̛̘̞̈́͊̽̆̑̂͐͗́̊̆̚e̵̛̪͂̆̊̋̽̋̀̾͘͝͝v̴͈̥̣̲̻̖͍̑̃̈́̄ę̷̜̗̳̼͓̙̭̼̠̣̼̈́̉̏n̴̡̡̲̞͕̼̼͇̹͔̱̈͑̒͗̈́̈́̓́͘͘͜͜͝ͅ ̸̛͎̺̫̠͖̦̬̂͊͛͊̀͒̍̄̋̊̚͝m̸̱͙̿̆ͅǒ̴͚̭̥̏̉ȓ̸̢̞̮̱̮̞̭̼̭̣̪̹́͗̄̇̍͋̒̓̒͘͘ͅḙ̴̥͚͇̙͖̟͉̗̼͇̮͋͊̆͋̿͑̐̈́̿ ̴̼͚̤̹̘͍̬̞̪̹̗̼̩̩́͐̍̔̆̉̐̐̽͌͜͠p̴̨͔̦͎̭̮̣̞̄͐̃̊̾̃͠e̸̩͛͂̈̽̿̈̽̏̚̚͝ơ̵̢̧̝͕͙͓̼̱̫̝̒̒͒̔͂͝ͅp̴͖͚̰̿̊͛͋̉̾̏̚͠͠ḷ̷̨̨̧̛̛̤̤̜̮̳̿̓͌̎̎̐̿̕̕e̸̜̮̪̮̯̦̗̺͕̪̣̭̰̤̊ͅ ̷̼̭̠͊̓͑̚͠t̸̡̨̧̼̞̱̰̩̯̺͇͈͎̝͕̋̊͛̑̅͒͘͘͠h̵̨̥͕̮͖̭̻̬͉̗̻̾͐̊̉̓͐̕e̷̡̫̼̠͖̗̤̩̹͈͕͖͆͛̄̊͗̈́͠ͅŷ̶̛͎͎̼͐̋̄̅͊̍̈́͗̂͛̕͝ ̵̲̯̞̲̘̣̬͕̭͙͙̔̈́̈́͑́̂̐̇l̷̟͗ő̸͎͉̬͎̬̭͉̼̙͈͙͒̇̏̍̔̊̑̍̆͠ͅv̸̨̖͔͇̱̳͖̼̳͓͆́͌͜e̷̡̡̫͕͎͆̉́̈̇̒̈́̄̄̃̓̑̈̈́͒ ̶͖͇͉̺͌͌̏̓͌͂̾̽͋͠ś̵̡͔̥̝̱͙͔̝̱̤̗̞̫͍ü̸̡̥̮̮͕̞̺͇̺̮͚̪͙͊͋̀̎̎̄ͅf̴̡̝̝͖̬̝̩̝̟̙̤̤̥̦̑̊̈͌͆́̈̒̌̉̆̈́̓̈f̴̫̹̒͛̚͜ȩ̵̢͉̣̻̤̲̜͍̳͑r̷̖͙̳͕̰̯͚̻͙̲̰̥̟̜̦͊̍̇̃̄͆̓̿̌̈̃̈́̅̚̚!̵̢̢̟̙̦̬͙̻̫͔̩̹̰̹̈́̉͒̀͑̽͆̈̈͆̂ ̴̸̦͉͍̘̹͓͍͔̤̹͚͚̳̭͙̟̝̙͇͓͙̤̮͉̎̏̉̇̽̋̅̾̍̈͛̑͋͆̓͐̈́̚͘̕͜͠͝͝͝ͅ

_shit, this hurts so bad!_

 

I̷̥̣͔̱͓̹̽͂̈̆͆͌͑̕̚ ̵̼͈̠̲̬̯͕̤̋̽̊̽̓̅̿̅̌̆̔̈̈́͝s̶̨̧̨̥̻̪̟̜̻̱̮̮̖͇̜̿̎̒̾̕͝͝h̴̜͖̦̓̋̃̎͐̌͌̅̍͒̈̍̚͝o̵̢̺̙̱̫͉͊̾͋̎̂͂͒̏̂̕̕u̴̡̨͔̘̜͍͍̤̣͖̗͇̎͋̄͑̅͌̾̈́̓̓̒͝l̴̛̙̙̯̊̀̒͆̀̒̕d̶̼̱̟̣̲̣̘̼͕̬̜͔͕͓͛̈́̏̎̽́̌̍̋̔͛̕͜ ̷̨̢̙̖̜̹̠̣̫̳̪̞̎͝s̵̻̱͌̑t̵̡̢̧̫̝͎̫̺̻͙̪̱̓̀́̀͒̿̇a̵͖̝̣̳̜̮̩̩̺͈̱̣̙͒̾̍͌͋̉͂͘r̶̨̨̲̠̖̬͉̘̝̄t̴̨͚̻͍̊͌ ̷̣̪͉̞̯͎̳͇̥̮̞̙̔̂̓́̔̚͝ǫ̵̙̙͍̜̯̪̘̱̗̖̞͔̼̎͛͌͂̏̃̒̈́͝͝f̷͙͗͛̓̔͆̂͗̓̕f̸̡͓͕̳̠̝̼̟̻̳̳̖̦́͋́͐̃̄͆̄̄͋̏̆ ̶̛̮̼̅̚͝ẅ̶̘̮͍̥̥̥̮͓̜́̓̆̿̂̋̽̚͝i̵̢̱̪͕̓̔̋̏̈t̸̡͓̟̯̰͙̘̞̟̘͔̋͂͛̀̌̃͜͠h̷͚̖̙͎̗̊̓̔͋̽̿͛͜ ̷̡̛̟̻͕̙̫͓͆̍͗̋̌́t̸̢̢̨͎͕̲̳̟̰̩̺͉̎̉͑̄̏͋̇̈́͝ḩ̷̳͔̣̘̻͖͖̟͛̆̈́̇̽̿̐́̍͂̾͠͝ę̸̛̣̦̟͕̫͇͓̮̒̓͐̋͒̅͑̆́̑͝͠͝ ̶̡̢͇̜͇̼̭̩̣̈͝ṕ̵̼̦͍̝͈͉̂͛͆͌̆̋͌̿̿̚ͅo̵̼̹̘̗̱̥͗͌͆̋̈́̓̚ļ̶̡̟̱̩̜͙̞͒̎̄̉̓̂̊̐̈́̕̕͝͝a̷̻̤͉̳̰̪͍͕̺̦̲̮͒̆̈͂̀͛͌̋͆͊̈́̒͆ŕ̴̨̹̪̜̹̬͖͓͙̬̻̬̱̟̀͐̈͛͊͆ͅo̸̬̭̬̯͍̬̟͉͉̭̣̼̗͒͂̃̿͑i̶̢̋ḑ̴͚̊̊,̵̛̰̊̈̓͒̉̒̋͛̈́́͆̚͜͠͝ͅͅ ̴̠̃͐̓͝ą̷͔͓̝͙̊͗͋̈́̓̀̈́̉̊̊̌͘͝s̶̡̛͈͚͖̬̄̓̈͊͂̈ͅ ̸̡̮̩͖̜̇̈́ţ̵͈̬̗͚̟̍̎̾̉͊̏͐̄̀̊̂̊̔͂͜h̴͓̝̖͍͈͙̭̪̪̩͈͑͗̌̋͗̎ͅę̶͙͎̻̺̻͙̯̤̲̼̇̋̒̂̉ ̵̛̜̙̩̼͂̿͋̿́̿̅͛̚͘͝͝ͅi̴̩͉͍͎̱͖̝̪̓̈́͂̾̔̇̏͑̊̒̍̒̈́͆͜n̵̨̡͙̰͕̺͖̲̻̦̩͙̤̏ṉ̷͎̜̻̬͍̍́ȩ̸̢̬̤̳̳̪͚̦̦̘̻͇̻̖̽̂̈́͐̅̆̑r̶̢̼͈͕̱͌̄̅̅̂̃̾͜͝ ̸̡̤̩̖͙͙̤̙̟̹̫̬͓v̴̥̥̪̪̫̦̬̩͍͊̃̇̔͋̎͗̚o̵̡͍̲͔͇̹͛̈́̽̈́̇̒́̓͌̍̎͠͝͝i̵̥̰͎̤̪̋͋͒͒͑͋̉̚c̸̮͔̈́̓e̷͉͍̘̼̙̤̞̙̟̺̦͐̏͌̇͝ ̵̢̮̰̯͎̳̬͚̱̅̒̏͋̓́̇̑͌̏̚͘͜ͅh̸̻̘͛a̷̤̪̝̹̫͎͉̅̓̔̈́̎̇̒͂s̶̞̯͐̈́̑̓͠ ̵̨͇̠̠͍̻̜̎͗s̵͖̆̀̽u̵̢̡̗̰̰͖͓̽̍̓̓͊͊̃͊̏̕ͅg̶̭̹̯͇̟͚͍̝͋̍͗́̎̈̈́̓͆̇̾̋͘͝ͅg̵̽͜e̴͓͓͉̺̠͇͋̋̆̋͋̅̔͒͠͠s̷̡̰͕̍͗̈̉͒̊̒̓̊͌̾̕͜͝͝͝t̴̨̡̨̗̭͓̜̗͓̻̅̔̔̄̃̎̓͜e̶͈̊̾̄͗͑̚d̷̲͉̠̺͔͌̉͠.̸̢͔͓̣̳̠̗̞̫̩́̏͊̀̈̐͒̀̑̒̌̑͝ͅͅ ̶̮̲̣̤̖̹̗̝̬̞͉͋̀͂̂̅͐̔̃̉͂̓̍͌O̶̧̨̡͔͙͓͉͍̩̻̦̭̪ͅr̴̡̘͈̘̭̟̎̍̂̄̐͜͜͜ ̴̼͚̺͉̗̲̖͖̈́̎͋̌̊̾̅̚͝w̷̘̥̗̙̦̫̻̫̺̪̣̏͂͜ȟ̷̨͚͚͚̳͆ạ̷̡̧̳͓̮͈͚̯̱̱̘͙͚̓̑́̌t̶̨̧͍̮͎̟͕͆́̽͗̈́̂̂͑̈́̈̕̚͘͠ ̷̡̢̯͖͕̬͎ą̵̡̧̖̗̣͕̙͉͕͇͉̳̝̈́̆̒̎̎̆͂̿̓̈́̋̽͘͜͝͠b̵̢͈̠͇͉͙̜͇̭̞̘͔̹̎͜ǫ̵̹̰̖̣͙̯̰̱̣̫̘͚̤̅͑̓̓͑͊̀͝ư̶̯̲͍̰̾̅̍̒͐̐̆͒͋̄͘̚͝t̶̡͇̖͖̲̞̘̻̘͉͖͋̒ ̶̧̥̮͙͓͈̞̯̰͚̺̮̓̅̽̄̐͊̎̿̍̕͜t̷̡̘̙̏̉̂̈̓̉h̷̢̼͈̹͙̤̟̬̞̳̣͙̦̚ë̷̖̲͇̾̿͑̍͌͋̑̈͐̋̕͝ ̶̨̛̤̟̖̲͕̝̪̘̖̏̃̓͆͋̿́̇͐͘͝p̷̧̠̼̺̫̤̞̹̬̩̠͚̌͋́̾̏͜͝h̴͇̙̖͛̒̍͜͠ō̴̧̜̰̤̥̘̙̭̖͌͛͒t̴̛͉͈͔̩͎̻̿̓̅͒̌̏̇͆̉̄̏̉̚͘õ̴̧̻̬̺̜̪̎̋̚͜ ̴̛̖͚̖̣̙̹̞̤͇̭̯͓̀̈́̇͆̇̉̅̈́̓̄̓̓͠t̵̨̹̥̮̪̩̝͚̃̀̅̈̚̚h̴̨̳̜͚̳͙̲͉̗̤̅̌̍͊͂̿̊͝ͅͅa̶̢̫̘̯̩̬͔͓͋͊̿̄̅̉̚͝͝͝ṯ̸̨̼͍̩̣̦̘͇̻͚͊̈́̿̋̾̍̉̔͆̈́͋ͅ ̴͔͕̖̠͈̄̈́̄̓̒Ç̶̛̘͉͎͙̙͕̪̝̼̘̼̙͇͆͐̓̎̂h̸̡̠͎̳̳͙̝͉̳̼͔͌̐̈̓̓l̸̡̢̛̹͇̱̘̞͕͎̰̹͙͎̮͙̊̉o̷̧̟̯͇̳̙̞̜̾͜ẻ̶̢͚̦̟̼̺̣͌̆͊͌̈́ͅ ̶͇̖̲͆̈́̔̿̑͑h̷̭̹̙͇͇̻̽͛̃͒͋͑͘ä̸͍̮̜̲̞̬͈̭͉̎̓̉͌̍̇̑͊̎̓̆̕s̸̡̠̗͍̍͊̈́͗̄̾̉̏̄̆̕͘ ̷̡̛͕̙̜͚̳̠̘̗̞̐̌̐̋̍͠͠t̵̮̘̯̹̗͕̠͙̙̜̐͐͗̌̋̍̈́̒̉͆̊̓̂̈́̎ͅȃ̷̢̜̻̮̟̹̝̩̰̯̰͍̠̻͋̔̑̄̄͐ͅk̸̩͇̇̑̍̇̽e̴̬̼̫̓̅̑̑͂̾͛̋͝͝͝n̶͖̺͈͐̾ ̷̛͕̤̻͔̟͖̣̝̙̪͍̣̾͒̊̃̽̂̃̎̾͘̕̚͠o̴̧͉̘͚͕̦̬͍̬͍͙̟̣͗̍͐̀́̊͒̿̓̍̈̓̌͘͝f̸̞͉̝̙͔͔̠̙̟͎̙̯̃̓̃͛͘ ̵̟̝̟̦̞̿͗m̵̢̱̘͚̫̅ẽ̴͓̤̮͌̔̇̀͗͐̍͂̊̓̍̽̈̇?̶̭̺̲͇̖̗͌͜͜ ̸̛͐̄͜͜S̶̡̘̰̣̖̥̳̝̖̙̪̼̍̽͑̔̿̿͐̐ḧ̶͇̦̭̬̦̝̮̹̭͓̰̖͚̣́̽͛̐̚ͅo̸̡̢̘̘̙̒̂͒̎u̸͔̮̒̕l̵͙͈̪̫͎̫̖̣͗̒̆̈́͆̄͂̅̔̇̕͠͝d̶͓̺̓̔͑͛̒̋͗͒͗̋̐ ̶͉̞͖͓̹̙̥̞̍̈́͌̎̾̋͊͊̈̚͝͠b̷̡̧̪̰̪̦͓̲͆̋̿͗̊̌̓̇̑̓͘ǫ̶̬̜̔̆̎͗̈́̉̚̚̚t̴̡̛̳̠̺͉̲̱̭̤͙̳̓̒͛̓́̑̃̈́̒̚͝͠ͅͅh̶̨͕͗̂͗͐̇̐͗̀͘͘͘ ̸̨͖̜͓͔̪͓͂̈́̇͊̕̕ͅw̶̻̬̩̺͖̥̮̓̈́͛̽̉̌͒̔͝ŏ̶̟̗͉̅̄͛͒ŗ̵͎̪̮̙̣̫̺̪̲̳̿͗͒̔̓͜k̴̢̡̝̺̝͇̝̻̙̞̩͖̙͎͗̒̐̈́͌͋̔̈́͘ͅ.̴̮͔͙͌̊̒̈́͠

̵̡̯̻͇͚̝̹͙̙̯̗͛͆̾͛͐͆͠Ą̷̢͚̠͍̜͚̖͇̣̜̗͇͔̆͌͋̍̎̅͂̋͂̕l̷̛̪̍͛̓̅͆͝ļ̸̹͕̯̼̱̯̝̰̟̼̎ͅ ̵̡̨̝̯͉͇̩̥̫̦͕̜͙̼̱̀̋̽̓̈́͋͝ǫ̶̤̩̬̤̹̫̇͋͗͝f̴̢̡͓̯̀̐̑̆̓̉͆̅͂̃͛̚͠ ̸̧̩̺͍̓̿͊̒̎̃̓̓͒̍̈́̏̄͒͐a̵̡̛͔̣̫̜̭̬͕̫̫͔̿̅͛͛͂̎̒̃̀̒̚͜ ̵̛̛͕̔̿̓͌̓̄̔̀̈́͘͝s̴͎̏̏͛̒̍̔͜͝ȗ̸̡̪̳̙͙̭̩̣͍͜d̸̢͔͕̟̦̾̀̊d̵̨̻̬̐͒̆͘e̸̡̢̟̻͙̠̱̫̠̘̥̬̖͌̃͑͑̋̄͗̐̄͒̆͑̚͜͝n̷̲̪̝̝̼͉̳̰̮͕̯͕͉̖̑̀͗͆̿̎̅͆ ̴̛͍͔̪̞͚͐̕ḫ̶̨͕͍̏̾̋͒͜ȩ̵̛̣͇̦̳͎͕̮̼̔͋̿͌̃̏̎̈̇̕̕͠ ̵̡͔͖̝̈́͊͗̊͝g̴̘̙̫̱̻̦̎̒̿͛͒̎̇̽̅̒̒̕̚̚͝r̴͎̜͍̪̞̺̟̤̃̀̎̆̀͛̿̒͘͜a̵̡̡̞̮͕̲̯̺̥̥̠͆̊b̴̞͎̤̱̥̔̏͋̍̃̀͛̐́͘̚̚͝͝ṣ̶̡̨̛̣̣͖̠̒̈́̓̅̍͗̋ ̴̬͓͉̫͉̹̯͓̲̥̤̞̺̈̑m̸̧̧̛͎̩̖̪̲͕̬̻͍̺͑̋̏̀́́̓̉̍͂̓̉̕͠ͅy̴̨̛̺̤̜̤͎͌̍̌̽͋͆̏̔̄ ̸̘̥̝̣̟̰̲̈́͌̃̅̒̔͐̐̈́͛̉͌̑͠ḧ̸̨̰͙͉͎̠̐͊̐̒͜ͅa̶̝͕̲̪̯̗̼̥͐̽̆̐ͅn̴̖͐͐͊̆͘d̶̡̜͓̖̻̠͙̼̦̦̠̼̗̺̰̿͗̔,̵̡̡̩̬̦̖͍̽̇̿̂̒̐̍̈̈́̈́̈́̿̉͗͑ ̷̩͈̲̻̝͕̖̮͎͇̯͔̻̯̌͆͐͂̉̋̅̔͋̃͛͒͘“̷̢̣̲̳͎̘͚̳̪̮̤̑̑̃͌̽̈́͊͘-̸̟͍͉͖͗͝-̵̛̳̗͇̘͚̔̉̒͌͐̌̇̇̓̚͜͝-̸͚̳̤̖̥͚̌̔͌̍̎̕-̴̘͂-̸̲̱͚͈̳̮͉͖̟̈́͒̒̿͂̆̿̈́̕͝-̵̢̢̡̢̡̟̳̘̤̣́̈̆͊͌̑̈͘ͅ-̶̡̨̲͕̳͖̟̤̲̪̓̇̋̈́̓̎̂̈́̿͜͝-̸̡̮͕̮̳̦̥̜͉̔̈́͘-̶̧̢̰͉̝̮͕̺͚̟̈̇̍̍̽̈́̽̍͝-̶̧͉̦̖̘͔͙̣̠̇̇̐͊-̷̡̧͙͔̳͚̘̈́̔̈́̀̈͑̆͋̄̋̊͒̎-̷̨̡̦̙̙̖̙̣̖̲́̃̓͑̓̚-̸̡̟̩̱̭̄̎͐̄̈̂̐͐̌͊̒̕͜-̸̼͚̜͙͔̦̍̈́̔͒̉̉̎̂-̸̡̡͙͎͈̹̜͉̯̮̏̋̒͌̓͋-̴̰̼̰͐̍͋͛̂̈́̾͘̕͝-̴̹͍̭͖̠̻̓͜-̵̖̘͍̻͙̄͊̓̔̿͠-̵̝̮͙̺͙̯͇̍͊̂̈̈́̏͂͠-̸̰̫̟̖͖̰̙̠̣̬̯͈̒̃̅̓̀͝-̴̘̩͖̯̲̜̼̫̪̺̞̻̹̟̆̎̎̏͑͑̆̌̐̐͝-̷̮͓̳̳̟̘͚̠͍̱̘̹͂̄̐̑͛̾̈́͒̃̄̃̈́͌-̵̧̛̩̳̮͓̦̭̉̅̾͗̅̏̐̽-̴̨̧̢̢̮̣̗̖̘̙̹̫̙̠͒̉͋̑̽͋̆͆̋̇͘ͅ-̶̛̛̜̭̣̺̜̠͙̲͕̰̱̓̈́̆͒͜͜͝-̴̘͕͍̘̋̒̈́͌̎̀̄͒͐̕-̸̰̖̦̤̀͆̈́̈̿̈̑̏̄̚̚͝-̷̧̤̲̼̺͎͈̓̄͛̋̌̽̃͊̐͆̾̇ͅ-̶̘̦̩̙̳̳͎̈̀͘-̷̨̛̮̲̺̰̪̭̩͕̥̪̤̦̠̳̈́̓̿́̒͐̇̐̅-̴̨̝̼̖̮͙̭͙̈́̃͆͗̑͒̏̐̈́̇͘͘͝͝-̸̛̳͈̰͑͛̂͆͗̕͘-̷̧̛͚͙͚̠͓̰̖͎͊̿͌͂͂̑̚͜͝-̴͎͕͙̪͍̹̮̺̥̳͗̽̈́͒͒͛̎̈́̽̚-̶̨̧͍̰͕̘̳̬͕͚̘̅͋-̷̧̡̪̺̙̯̪̊̾̂̈́̆͌͘-̵̧̨̼̭̝͍̟̱́̋̐̒̒͒̅̇̕͝-̵̻͕̥̖̹̞͍̓̇͛̈̅̊̕ͅ-̴̨̛͈̹̝͇̗̖͚̜̣̞̦̏̍͗͐̔͛͆̈́̄͘̚͘̚-̴̰͙̬̱̥̤́̃͝-̸̧̨̞̭̹͎̳̫̞̖̬͉̝͚̹͛̑͑̋̏-̴̧̨̛̫̬̦̗̤̞̤̇̂͜ͅ-̴̧̨͍̫̟̤͔͔͔̼̲̣̬͂̎̑̉͌̏̉͌̽̃͗̇̈͠-̷̳̱͍͍̭̱̣̍-̵̫͈̣͔̗̳̹̩̻̼̲̗̇̃̉̊̍̈͊̕̚-̵̝̻̣͙̪̝͙̝̀̉́̾͐̈́-̵̧̨̨̮͉̝͇̘̝̩̜͍̪̭̎̔͛̂̓͆̒̍͘͘͠-̵̣͙̩͎̄̉̆͂̑͘͜͝-̴̨͓͖̩̞̘̜͇͊̐̊̐̃̈̿̓̈́̈́̃͘͜͠-̷̨̬͓̙̣̰̣̙̙̮͔͖̗͋̀̈́̋͆̽̽̈́̂-̵̢̳̪̤͚͈͗-̴̨͕̩̙̦̲̬͓̰͓͇̪̭͉͚̐-̷̨̢͚̻͙̏-̸̧͔͙̜͙̭́͆͛͘͜-̶̮͕͎͐̏͌̈́̊̀̋͗́̉̏̏͝-̸̢̗̹̟͓͔̦̜͍͂̔̐-̶̱̱͈̯̻̯͈̯̳͓̊̈́̓̄̒̉̉̐̊̕̕͜-̴̢̨̱͎͔̼̺͈̦̰͔̼̼̍̏̑͒̓̎̈́̈́̓̈́͠͠-̴͎̱͉͕̜̯͎̝͔̤͎͕̀͑̈-̷̻̋͑̐̈́̂̿̀-̵̧̼͇̞̖̮̭̺̳̯̩̌-̶̮̭̼͓̣͗͊̉̏̔̐̽̈̋̔͘-̷̧̛̱̱̦̗̭̙̱̮̞͈̽͜ͅ-̵̡̼̜̣͕͎͔̣͇̫̾͌͛͆̊̽͆̓̚̚-̵̥̪̞͙̊͛̈́̂̆͌̓̍͝-̴̝͈̗̖͉̞̮̣̭̼̃ͅ-̴̨̛̬̮͇͖̙̫̼̫̝͉̞̦̩̔̏͛̽̇̊͆̉͑̏͝ͅ-̸̱͙̗̻̻̝͖͕̰̲̹̯̦͕̅̊̔͌̍͒͝͝͝-̷̡͚̜̠̹͎̟͈̪̿̅̈́̌͋͌̀̅̿̓̍͝-̵͎̍͐̍̽͊̈̌̈͌̅̚͝͝-̴̭̻̜̑̚-̴̧̪̪͕̮͎͒̉̿̋̊̅̂̒̕-̶̢̭̜̫̬̭̩̇-̴̧̳̣̝̥̣̳͍͍̪͎̞̞̦͑̆̆-̵̧̨̛̩̻̮͉͚͍̱͗̉̓̒̔̅̎͝-̷̢͍͙͂̏̏̋̃-̷̢͙̦̪̹̺̞̰͉̲̏̇̐-̷̡̗̝͕̰̗͈̋̓̀͗̆̋͌͝-̸̨̧̝̙̬͈̬̭͔̗̜̐͆͂̚͘͝-̵͖͇͈̠̳̼̥͙̟̰̤̿̓̎̌͊̌́̔͊͜͝͠-̸̧͕̬̭̆͌͊̈-̶̨̲͇̺͚̓̒̀̐̚-̶̧͕̫̥̖̰͙̣̞̥̳͕͙̩͌́̈́̉̀̾͝-̸̧̭̳̻̺͈͎͎̜͚̗̲̗̘̏ͅ-̶̬̺̯̖̫̹̭̙̼̘̰̈̈́͐̓͆͊͝͝-̴̨̛̝̩̠͍̜͖̗͕̻͖͇̬͖͒̓̈̎̎̀̉͑-̷̤̬̿͂̌͠͠-̴̧̛̟͔͎͖̺̪̙̺͇͋̊̽̃̊̆̄̌̈̀-̶̧̞̞͈̦̣̯̠̱̩͌̂̋̽̎͊̍͊͜-̶̧̧̧͎͎͇͚̬͔̼̪̻͙̏͜͠-̷̧̡̱̙̣͌̉̍̽ͅ-̵̘̙̱̝̈́̋͑͐̉̌̚-̷̪͙̃-̷̡͕̟̻̣̫͍͎͑̂̓͊̎͒̆͂͒̔̒͊-̸̹͓̣̖̪̻̤̝̻̖͙͆̈́͒̐̓̀-̴̢̂̄͐̂͑̐̕̕̚͝-̷̡̢̡̙͈̥͎̤̻̜͎̌͂̌̎̌̆͌́̒̇̕̚-̷̡͚̳̪̝̘͎̱̫̙͕̇̽̍̐͗̅̂̔̆̌̕̕͠͠-̶̡̖̅̿̐̈́̀ͅ-̸̡̡̼̹̗̮͉̪̹͓͌̈́͛͛̿̆̀̈́̂͝-̴̝̻͙̥̬̘̔̊̋͌̋̈́̓̚-̴̥͔̻͔̫̝̙̮̩͇͕̍̍̒̔͂̊̎̈́͆́͒͛͛̕͠-̴͓̠̎̆̃̈́̔̆̄̄̀̈́̋̕-̷̧̧̛̞̯̗̭̤̤̺͕̀̈́̅̂̓̎̕͝-̷̛̥̉͑̂̓̓̇͘͝-̵̗͉̗͔̔̃͋͛̃̾̽-̷̡̬̟̮̖̥̩͓̣̹̦̮͋̈̽̔̚͜͜-̶̥͚̮̯̖̖̬̋̐̓͂̿̚͝͝-̴̼̰͉̙͑͗̎̇̇-̴͕̙̹͙̝̳̤͎͙͑̚͠͝͝-̶̡̨̙̲̼̳̰͇̗̯̥̝̆̂̉̊̕͜ͅ-̸̧̜̪͛-̶̛̦̻͈̜͎͔͈̪̼̜̠̬̲͂̋͌̑͒͛̅͐̄͊̄̿-̴͉̥͉̟̖̝̟̦͔̗͓͌͊̿͐̑͒̆̃̐̈́͘-̵̧̠̹̟͎̼͈̽̎͌̒͂́̈́̓̕͜͠-̸͖̥̜̐̎̄̅̂̃̂̌͝-̷̣̼͓̇̾͑̌͊̑̏͝-̶̡̝̞͍͈͙̩̒-̶̢̡̮̼̭͓̱̠̞̪̪̘̭̝-̸̢̡̛͕̫̘̦̭͉̣͔̬͚̪̭̈́̅̀͛̓́̂͠͝-̷͈̥̜̘̤̺̌̐̂̄͑̈́̌̍̋͛͘͘͝͝͝-̴̤̋̊̉̈͗̔-̸̨̥̗̮̰̟̱͎͖̩̌͜͝-̶̛͙̙̖̦̜̩͊̒̊̀̈́̚-̵̡͚̰̼̦̪̯̱̱̱͒̓͛͆͂͜-̷̨̞̥̩̠̬͉̤͍̱̙̓͗͐͒̿̐̒̓̔͊̌͆̎́̕-̸̖̅͌̇̅͋͛͑̔͠-̵͉̠̪̬̣͈̜͎̣̈́͜͝-̵̲̦̞̤̘̩̳̠̹̜͖͂-̴̨̰̱̻͕͔̄̒̄͛͑̊͆̾̌͋͝-̶͓̤̝̂̊̓̇̔̒͆̓̅̓̀̃̂-̸̨̨̢̟͇̘̣̬̜͔͈̺̮̅̈-̸̧̞͍͈̪̯̻̲̇̑̈́͜-̸̧̡͎͎͔͕͕̖̘͛̌̋̀̑͋͐̏̈-̵̛͔̝͙̦͖̲̬̩̲̻̘͍͓̯̑̒̇̈́̑̆̉̚̕͘͜͠͝-̴̢̲̫̙̯̠̫̼̭̔̈́́̿̈́̅͝͝ͅ-̸̡̘͖̥̤̥͍̤̣̙̮͙͚̑͆͊-̴̮̹̭̩̻͂̓͐̂̓́͒̍-̴̪͉̎ͅ-̷͎̟̹̫̣̿̔̓̉̽̔̄͝͠-̷̤̜̳̹͚͖͔̻͓͇͙̞̖̼̠̐͌̓͂́̐͌̅͋̄̍̚-̵͚̻͂͛͋̏̊̇̆́̌̔̉͠-̴̳̹̞̦̩͉̪͈͖̘̼̘͚͋̓͌̊͒̈́̇͘͜͝͝-̶̗͙̹̰͉̗̫͙̜̬̳̌̽̇͐̊̐̈́͑͛̒̿̈́̓-̶̨̬͙͙͙̲̝̱̤͍͕̼͙͗̌̾̉̋̊̃̿̚͠ͅ-̶̧͉͚͙̠̗̹͎̣̩͇̭̟̒͐̏̈́̍͆̌̂̾͂͜͠͠͝ͅ-̴̢̨̥̦̓-̸̪̘̟̯͈̟͎͈̙̒͌͝-̷̢̣̱̱͈͙̰͍̖͕͔̟̋̊̊̄̍̀̊̇̎̅͗͘͠͠͝ͅ-̶̧̡̨̢̧̘̠̮̖̙͖̦͆̓̈́̔̐̾-̷̺̩̩̝̪̦̤̩̙͉͗̈́̈̿̔̍̏̕͝-̷̭̄͑̈́̍̐̒̑͜͝-̸͙̘̳̥̳̮̪̳̩̯̹̀̉̈́̄̒͐-̶̥͈̀̃̈́̿-̸̻̺̜̦͔̠͖͙͉̫͋͒̇͑̊̕̚͘͘-̷̛̫̼̖̟̭̘̦͉͈͈̭͛̽̽͋̾̈́͐̋̏̒̉͝ͅ-̶̦̤̭̒͆̒̓̈́-̴̥̖͙͖͕̝̓̃͊͂̃͜ͅͅ-̵̪͎̥̖̠͇̗̦̣͖̬̮̪̺̣̒͋-̸̦̝͕̔͊̽̽͐̎̿͑̔̄̆̆͛͝͠ͅ-̷̡̨͈̮͓̘͓̫̟͙͗̽̓̏̏́͋̕-̵̼̙̞̘̮͓̮̥̦̘̬̮̓͌͌͝ͅ-̷̫̗̖͓̖͇͖̯̲̥̥̲͕͈̓͋̽̊͂̈́͌̍̏͗͋͠ͅ-̸̦̪̦͉̍̽̓-̸̛͍̲̮͍͉̬̪̦̤̪̉́̒͑͐͊̏̄̇̚͜͜-̷̱̲͈̗̩͍̽͂͊̈̈̌̈̽̽͜͜-̷̛̠̩͙̻̗̠̮̼̬̠̿́̍̓͜͠ͅ-̶̢̢̦̦̦̆̂̍̀̑̑̌͐͂̃̕-̷̨̛̛͓̭̭̝̙̱̮̍̎̆͗̆̍̃͘-̶̛̭͈̪̻̹͎̼̬̭̭̠̑̿̿͒̅̂̾̈́̈̕͜͝͝-̷̰͖̎̽͑̓̎̃̎̆͒̑́̐͝-̸̨͔̟̹̪̣̳̒̎ͅ-̷̧̻̹̮͚͇̰͔͇̠̖͖̑̍͌̍̚͜-̶̛̫̙̹̬͙̲̅̋̈́̌̄̔͝-̵̛͔̘͂͊͒̇̏̀̄̌̑̿̚-̷̨̢̡̹̝̪̟͎̪̭̱̳͕̗̈́͛̐̍͛̕-̶̳̺̱̯̥͓̹͐̈́ͅ-̶̧̟̰͎͚̺͉̞͎̹̻̲̍̽͑̏͗͐̈́̄̇̚͘͜͜͝-̵͔̩͔͌̅̾̆-̷̨̨̛̬̺͓̲͉͍̘̰̼̣͉̝̈́̅̈́̅̆͛̍̀́͗͘͜-̶̢̧̛̩̱͙͚͇̹͍̪̫̺͍̰͈͂̌͆̈́̈́̓͐-̵̧̱͍͖͔̦̠̪̦̖̗͎̗̗̥̆͛͆̀́̃̃̋̔̀͌͝͝-̴̡̗͇̟͕̪̇̀͜͝͝-̴̢̡̲̥̟͓̣̜͈͔̼̟͍͗̓̓̅̀̈́-̷̛̭̣̰̜̱̙͙̻̖̃͐̏̈́͋͑͐̕͝-̸̨̟͇̖̠͔̃̅̽͑̅̄̿̈́͂̇͂͘͘-̸̧̢̛͕̹̪͓̙̳͉̺̫͆̑̌̋̿̂͘̚-̶̛̛͇̎̓̓͋̕͝-̴͉͕͖̖̃͛̾̍͆̕͜͜͝-̶̝̓ͅ-̴̡̨͓͕̤̟̘̗̟̰͙̼̟̉̏̉̂͆͜͠-̶̛̮̆̽͆͌͗̾̐̂-̵̼̰͓̳̞̹̞̠̣̞̺̪̀͒̔̾̇̾̍͛͂-̶̼̥͉̫̲͍̺͖̣̥͎̩͈͑͒̉ͅ-̴̡̘̞̪̼̰̖͔͚͐̃̒͂͋̈́̋̈́̀͘̚͝-̸̞̬̗̺͚̥̭̯̠̪͚̗̪͙̀̇̃́̎͋̆ͅ-̵̡̗̙͚̲͇̲͑͛͂̋̀̿͌̊͂̇͊͑͌͝͝ͅ-̴̧̥̝̰̝̝̖̑́̔͑̒̍͋̃̋͠͠-̷̧̢̩̹̗̯̜̥͓͉̮͉͈̹̀̉͒̆̎-̵̮̤͓̬̹̲̫̦͕̜̥͔̳͐̅̐̄̀͜͝͝-̴̝͔͕̼̌-̶͕͎͚̜̰͙̙̙̯͕͓̠̈́͜-̷̢̩͉̙͎̣̻̣̑̋̅͒͒̑̏̓-̸̢̺̘̪̖̖͒̅̂͊̋͠-̶̛̝̪̳̤͓̥̈́͐̑͋̍͐̓͋͌̊̚͝-̸̡̛̬̜̟̯̟̄̈́̒͋̓̽͛̕̕-̵̢̼̩̭̣̹̪̣͍̰̝̠̻̻̠͋̓̎̃̌̀͂̌̇̕͘-̶̜̻̳̊̽̿͒̿̌͑̿̈́͆̈́͘̕̚͜-̵̨̗̤̪̙̋̆͜͝-̶̱̭̻͎͓̺̼̜͉̱̤̹̮̃͌̏̈͑͒̓̑ͅ-̴̻͈̝̜̜͙̦͖̹͖̰̚͜͜-̸͔͈͕̳̂̿͝-̴̢̰̳̼̮̹͒̿̿̋̎̈́̋̓̃̎͠-̵̪̙̰͖̯͙̻͎͚̦̈͋̑͌̚-̷̞̺̲̦̈̔͊̃͂̚ͅ-̸̡̢̙͉̫̦̹̩̝̫̳̜̞͉̭͂͑̆̌̂̃͗̌̈́̓-̴̣̗̘̫̪̱̥́̃͆̈͛̎̏͂̓̈̓̕͝͠-̶͚̘̣͈̝͈̑̒̈́̎̑͘̚͝͝-̸̧̣̫̖̞̖̭̪̪̘̭̐̚-̸̻̈́͌͐͛̒̓͌̑̑͋̕̚͠-̴̢̛͕̯͓̟͂̽̅͒͛̕ͅ-̶̢̊͐͐͗̓͊̃̀̏̀̐̇͌-̸̧̢̣͕̥͍͓̯̣̗̫̾̏͛͛̊̇͘̕͠͝-̶̧̛͚̥̞̲̬̾͐̈́͆͆ͅ-̶̙̝̱̩͑̆̍̀-̷̩̻͂-̷̨̹̻̞̻̹̣͈̙̪̦͉̿̈́-̷͉͍͙̰̮͍̞̩̼̈́̓̋͌̎̒͜͝͝͝-̴͓̗̽͒̔̉̆̏͋̌-̶̻̝̱̪͉̖̹̖̮̮͚͖̎͋̾-̷̨͔̤̺̱̜̝̭͓̩̹̒͛̌̾̃̃-̵̨̢̰̭̲̫͓͈̘͍̭͈̟̌̆͂̑̒̒͠-̸̹̬̦̠̗̬͕̫͍̳̱̾̒̏͂́̔-̷̡̼͈̬̝̠̱̦̝̝̠̭̖̐̐̋̃̈́̾͂͆̏͛-̷̢̢̦̪͈̥̫̮͚̀͒̌̽̿̍̌̅̾̾͠͝͝-̸̧̲͛͑-̸̨̛͓̟͖̳͚̜̭͙̼̜̮͉̞̑̔̃̉̊̃̽̔͑ͅ-̴̦̬͉̙͇̪̂̍͊̎͐-̸̨̛̛̱̦̺͂̀́̈̎̋͘͠͝-̵̢̰̏̍̉̓͝-̷͙͉̥̣̾̋-̵̻̝͍͓̃̎̐̏̔̇̋̾͂̔̑̚͝-̵̛̜͕͒̃̓̍̍̃̕̚̚̕͜-̷̡͚̋͌͝-̸̪̹̌̒̏̓͆͊͋̊̋͐͠͠͠-̸̣̠̜̟̞͎̞̟̳͇̤̣̼̰̌-̷͎̻̈́͛̈̑͝-̷̗̮̰̖͖̫͇͓͓̻̙͗͋̓̑͗͜ͅ-̵̧̜̬̼̝͈̉̃̿̏͌͂̅̔́̇̉͒-̶̛̛̛̗͖̯̠̎̐̎͒̿͜͝-̵̢̛͚̣͎͉̘̯̺͊̏̈́͋̆͌̓͊̊́̔̕͘͜͝-̴̯̺͆-̷̡̮͍͕͔̱̱͓̭̑̈́͊̓̕-̵̧̥͉͕͎̹̱̺̺̻̫̣̞̉̾̕ͅͅ-̴̡̹̮̠̂̔̒-̸͙̹̆̏̃͋͊̀̅͂̈́̋͆̎̆̈́-̶̨̙͈̘͖͙̀͊͐͐͆̽̐̈́̚͝͠-̴͍̥̥̘̦̳͈̇̇͊̋̄̋͝͝͝͠-̷̛̪͔̦͒̆̄̀̀̒̃̽̃̒͋͜-̴̡̺͓̭͈̲͌̈́́͌̾̍́͝-̶̛̲̯̤̥̙͆̌̽͌̐̾̑͊͝-̸̨̖̟͉͇̤͂̌͑̍͛͑̄͌̾͝-̵̪̼̜͙̭͉͖̣̖̐͗̃̐̌͛̽̿̌̐̑̏͜͝͝-̷̛͚̰̙̦̻̬͐̈́͆̈́͋̕͝-̷̩̺͕͎͔̗͑̀̊̐-̴̢̬̜̙͔͇͖͉̓͗͂͌͝-̵̰̜͉͇͕̘͎̘̱̤̼̾̎̔̊͗̎̃̽͛͑̚̚͜͝͠͝ͅ-̶̡͍̩͑͋̀͋̎̍̓͒̒̈́̽͝-̴̢̝̳̩̰͔̻̅̓̌̈͋-̵̲̭̄̅̌͠͠-̴̨̛̖͈̠̝̲̬̹̬́̌̃̄́̓̂͑-̷̝̱̞̱͍̹̲͊̉͂̋͗̈̈̕-̵̨̼̹̐̐͆͛͒̈́͒͘̚͝-̷̘͉̗̝͚͗̿̃͑̆-̴͖̤͈̌̍͋̆̍̿͂͂̊̒͒͒͘͝ͅ-̴̯̼̺̼͉͍̿̈́̓̃̏̅̄̂̔͑͝͠-̶̹̝̠̹̳̭̲̤̜̖̥̈́̈́̐͒́͒̉̉̍͠-̷̧̰̥͇̘̻͉̙̹̮͑̽̔̽̊͂̐̆-̸̡̨̫̱̱̿͜-̸̼̬̲̰̲̠̦̲̠̥͗͆͂͆̇̄͘͜͝͝͠-̸̥͎̹̣̻̙͋͛̂̄̓̎̌͂̽̇͝-̵͚̞̗̮͔̦͔̹̓̓͆͐̉͠-̶̢̖̟̥͉̼̗̭̘͓̩̃̈́̊̔͆̽́̕͠-̴̡̰̞̰̗̗͉̫̈́̆̒̌͆-̵̡̬͖͙̩̝͇͇̪͉͓̬̲͂̈̈͒̋͆̑̊͌̓̍͑͘͜͜-̸̨̞͉̻̹͇͖̪̹̗̖̬̋-̴̡̡̤̩̹͖͔̩͚̣͌̆̀̐-̷̧̡̧͙̝̣̣̖͌̍̏̃͛̈́͛͘͜-̵̢͈̙͍̟͙̮͓͛-̴̧̣͉̖̱͎͍͍̪̔̔̐̅̏͆͑-̷̧͚̫̼͖͖͙̹̒͐-̸̨̲̜̭̺̱̳͇̼̣̔̍̓͊̈́̈͝-̸̬̻̋͌-̵̳͚̗̮̑̽̑̔̋̎-̴̢̢̧̤̹͈̩̪̯͈͆͆̉-̸̢̧̛̪̟̹̤͚͙͒͐̐̽͝-̴̢̢̳̱̘͙͔̟͕̝͍̤͚͓̏́̆ͅ-̷̱̜̬̮͓̫͕̣͉̮̘͙̖͚̇̓̎̂̈͐̏-̵̜͖͖̮̞̙̈̀̃͛̓̑̋̉̀͝-̶̬̠̍̉͒̑̎̇͒͝-̴̡͈̬̖̗̟͖̼͔̥̽̀-̷̡̪̹͓͍̜̦̣͔̻̥͖̒̄̍͆̓̓͂͛̔͐̄͠-̶͈̳̘̺̳͚̰̘͍̤̲̒̓-̸̼̱́̄̇͆̔̿͊̆̏͛̃͝͠-̸̧̨̪̥͕̭̅̂ͅ-̵̡̢͚̯̟̹̹̫̬̘̘̎̆̓̈͠-̸̣̖͉̖͙̣͖̜͙͎̺̭̠͋-̵̧̛̯̠̪̱̙̞̜̤̣̣̹͓̳̋̽͌̐͜͠-̶͈̥͇͉̗̤̞̤̤͕̪͎̟̘͋͜-̵̡̠̞̬͈̮͔̳͈̯̏̉̾̈́̂̔͝-̶̯͕͔͎̗͉̭̟͑̽͐͐̌̈͊̆̒-̵̰̟̱̽̄̊̋̃̃̌̒͆͒̅͘͝-̶͚͍̼͎͈͓͕̪̣̹͓̺̦͑͛̔̒̅̐̎-̶̨͕̯͍̿̽́͒̊̕-̴̛͓͎̜̺͙̤̃̋̏̂̈́̋̑͂͛̓-̴̓̎͌ͅ-̶̛̛̤͆̋͆͛͐̎̿͗͋͛-̸̜̙̮̹͒-̸̧̡͉̘͈̝̰͒̎̅͂͗͋̽̏̍̓̑͗-̴̝͈̖̼͈̻͚̺̺͍͈͚̯̄̎̔̊͗͐̏̄̕̚͘-̶̡̾̽̈̔͗̑̈́̃-̴̝̭̹̳̄̓̑̑̈̐͌̿͆̚͝-̶̨̨̱͎̪̹̀̑͐-̵̛̺̱̙̬̗̞͙̒̀͋̾̇͂͌̆̑͋̒͘-̴̢͖̹͕͖͔̝̯͇̀-̵̧͕̦͛̈́͛̾̐͠-̷̨̡̧̲̬̣̯̤̮͓̱̆̿͒̀̍̈́̂̎̋̃-̶̢̛̘͚͔̩̥̼͈̦̝͔̟͆͊͊̉̊̍̿͜-̷̢̧̖̯̱̝̞̲̼͌͆̽͘͜ͅͅͅ-̷̬̅-̷̲̗͍͉̩͔͓͗͐̍͝-̷̹̰̠̖̗̲̥̈̃͊̿̆̇͂̈́̏ͅ-̷͎͇̗͓̣̼̱̰̓͂̈́̐́̇͝͝ͅ-̷͓̮̣̓̉͝-̵̳̤͚̬̼̯̒͂́͛̌̓̈́͆̂͋̕͝-̷̧̯̖͔͙̤̘̝͍̟̬͉̓̈̒͋̈̊̽̓̇͒͐͌͜ͅ-̸̥̥̻̦̼̘̥̠̮͖͋-̵̰͓̰͉͓̲̬̤̽͗̎̈́-̸̨̗͂͛͆-̸͕̼͎̙̓͛̔̔͐̋̓̄̈́̏̎̆̀̕-̵̨̗͈͍͉̣̙̺̳̗͉͋͌-̸̡̯̯̳̃̍͂̑̐͗͊̚-̴̨̗̘͇̩͓̗͉̝͎̘̰́̾͆͘͘͠ͅ-̶̢̟͇̬̦̳͉̫̹̲͌̈̌̐͐͒̑̆͊-̶̡̼̯͇̰̼̬̺̣̘͑͌-̴̧̢̧̢̯͖̹̣̞̻̮͓̖̤͐̓͒͛̏̕͜-̵̙͕͈̩̰̇̅͊͂̂͑̊̿̆̄͆͌-̶̨̡̧̧̰̰͉̬͚̹̙̥̰̙̇͊̾͆͛͝-̷̡̙͇̞̦̰̥͉̳͙͖͓͎̠̅̉ͅ-̶̙̗͖͛̐̉̐͗͋̄̽-̶̨̜̲͍̺͇̳͍͍̮̙͋-̸̡̛̬͓̯̓̓̀͊͊̆͛̌̕̚̕-̴͉͙̘̈́̈̽́͒̓̐͐̑͌̅́̂̊͜-̴͙̫͇̹̤̳͉̠̃̽ͅ.̸̧̬̮͙̳̤̪̥̘̳͑͆̐͋̽͑͒̌̐͘͠”̷̙̗͉̖̙̣̓̏͠͝

̸̛̱̞̒͝

A stitch in my skull. Still feeling his hand holding mine, I slowly fall into my inner abyss. The dark brownish stain atop of my pupil drowns in darkness.

* * *

 

Kate knocks on my door. “Pick up the phone” has started from the beginning. Tuesday’s third iteration had some issues starting properly. My legs both work flawlessly. My eyes perceive the tiniest ray of light cast into my room. Kate’s vicinity mollifies my senses. I can’t get up though. I’m too exhausted…

**Author's Note:**

> At the end of this Fandom, a list of inspirations will be posted. This is a non-profit work by fans for fans. All acting persons are either from the game or invented. There is no intention to refer to other people. The possibility of bearing resemblances with persons or similar incidents and/or events are purely coincidental.  
> Follow me on Twitter for further updates:  
> @Makrados


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